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‘ She clung to Turkey, and seemed almost to forget my presence.” 

Page 285. 


Ranald Bannerman’s 

r 

•/¥ 

-Boyhood. 


. ■# ' 

. k 

*■ 

BY 

GEORGE MACDONALD, LL.D., 
n 

Editor of “Good Words for ths Young,” and Author of “Alscc 

Forbks,” etc. 


WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 


library 

OF THE 

SUP.'. COUNCIL, 



PHILADELPHIA 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO. 

1879. 


TZ3 


Ex-cfiang® 

4ili!lffary of Supreme Council A a 
A g 3 0,1940 


RANALD BANNERMAN’S 
BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER I. 


INTRODUCTORY. 



DO not intend to carry 
my story one month be- 
yond the hour when I 
saw that my boyhood 
was gone and my youth 
arrived ; a period de- 
termined to some by 
the first tail-coat, to 
me by a different sign. 
My reason for wishing 
to tell this first portion 
of my history is, that 
when I look back upon 
it, it seems to me not 
only so pleasant, but so 
full of meaning, that, if I can only 
tell it aright, it must prove rather 
pleasant and not quite unmeaning 
to 'thosTwho will read it. It will prove a very poor 


story to such as care only for stirring adventures, and 


1 * 


5 


6 


RANALD BANNERMANS BOYHOOD, 


like them all the better for a pretty strong infusion of 
the impossible ; but those to whom their own history 
is interesting — to whom, young as they may be, it is a 
pleasant thing to be in the world— will not, I think, 
find the experience of a boy born m a very different 
position from that of most of them, yet as much a boy 
as any of them, wearisome because ordinary. 

If I did not mention that I, Ranald Bannern*'::!, am 
a Scotchman, I should be found out before long by the 
kind of thing I have to tell ; for although England and 
Scotland are in all essentials one, there are such dif- 
ferences between them that one could tell at once, on 
opening his eyes, if he had been carried out of the 
one into the other during the night. I do not mean 
he might not be puzzled, but except there was an in- 
tention to puzzle him by a skillful selection of place, 
the very air, the very colors would tell him ; or if he 
kept his eyes shut, his ears would tell him without his 
eyes. But I will not offend fastidious ears with any 
pliable of my rougher tongue. I will tell my story in 
English, and neither part of the country will like it the 
worse for that. 

I will clear the way for it by mentioning that my 
father was the clergyman of a country parish in the 
north of Scotland— a humble position, involving plain 
living and plain ways altogether. There wa^a glebe 
or church-farm attached to the manse, or clergyman’s 
house, and my father rented a small farm besides, for 
he needed all he could make by farming to supplement 
the smallness of the living. My mother was an invalid 
as far back as I can remember. We were four boys, 
and had no sister. But I must begin at the beginning ; 
that IS, as far back as it is possible for me to begin. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 7 


CHAPTER II. 

THE GLIMMER OF TWILIGHT. 

I CANNOT tell any better than most of my readers 
how and when I began to come awake, or what it 
was that wakened me. I mean, I cannot remember 
when I began to remember, or what first got set down 
in my memory as worth remembering. Sometimes I 
fancy it must have been a tremendous flood that first 
made me wonder, and so made me begin to remember. 
At all events, I do remember one flood that seems 
about as far off as anything, the rain pouring so thick 
that I put out my hand in front of me to try whether I 
could see it through the veil of the falling water. The 
river, which in general was to be seen only in glimpses 
from the house — for it ran at the bottom of a hollow 
was outspread like a sea in front, and stretched away 
far on either hand. It was a little stream, but it fills 
so much of my memory with its regular recurrence of 
autumnal floods that I can have no confidence that one 
of these is in reality the oldest thing I remember. In- 
deed, I have a suspicion that my oldest memories are 
of dreams, where or when dreamed the good One 
who made me only knows. They are very vague to 
me now, but were almost all made up of bright things 
•One only I can recall, and it I will relate, or more 
properly describe, for there was hardly anything done 
in it. I dreamed it often. It was of the room I slept 
in, only it was narrower in the dream, and loftier, and 
the window was gone. But the ceiling was a ceiling 
indeed ; for the sun, moon and stars lived there. The 


S RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


sun was not a scientific sun at all, but one such as 
you see in penny picture-books — a round, jolly, jocund 
man’s face, with flashes of yellow frilling it all about, 
just what a grand sunflower would look if you set a 
countenance where the black seeds are. And the moon 
was just such a one as you may see the cow jumping 
over in the pictured nursery rhyme. She was a cres- 
cent, of course, that she might have a face drawn in 
the hollow and turned toward the sun, who seemed 
to be her husband. He looked merrily at her and she 
looked trustfully at him, and I knew that they got on 
very well together. The stars were their children, of 
course, and they seemed to run about the ceiling just as 
they pleased ; but the sun and the moon had regular 
motions, rose and set at the proper times, for they 
were steady old folks. I do not, however, remember 
ever seeing them rise or set ; they were always up and 
near the centre before the dream dawned on me. It 
would always come in one way : I thought I awoke in 
the middle of the night, and lo ! there was the room, 
with the sun and the moon and the stars at their pranks 
and revels in the ceiling— Mr. Sun nodding and smiling 
across the intervening space to Mrs. Moon, and she 
nodding back to him with a knowing look and the 
corners of her mouth drawn down. I have vague 
memories of having heard them talk. At times I feel 
as if I could yet recall something of what they said, 
but it vanishes the moment I try to catch it. It was- 
very queer talk, indeed— about me, I fancied— but a 
thread of strong sense ran through it all. When the 
dream had been very vivid, I would sometimes think 
of it in the middle of the next day, and look up to 
the sun, saying to myself: He’s up there now, hut 



‘‘Mr. Sun nodding and smiling across the intervening space to 

Mrs. Moon.” ^ 

A* 


9 



RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. II 

enough. I wonder what he is seeing to talk to his 
wife about when he comes down at night. I think it 
sometimes made me a little more careful of my con- 
duct. When the sun set I thought he was going in 
the back way ; and when the moon rose, I thought she 
was going out for a little stroll until I should go to 
sleep, when they might come and talk about me again. 
It was odd that, although I never fancied it of the 
sun, I thought I could make the moon follow me as I 
pleased. I remember once my eldest brother giving 
me great offence by bursting into laugliter when I 
offered, in all seriousness, to bring her to the other 
side of the house, where they wanted light to go on 
with something they were about. But I must return 
to my dream, for the most remarkable thing in it I 
have not yet told you. In one corner of the ceiling 
there was a hole, and through that hole came down 
a ladder of sun-rays — very bright and lovely. Where 
it came from I never thought, but of course it could 
not come from the sun, because there he was, with his 
bright coat off, playing the father of his family in the' 
most homely, Old-English-gentleman fashion possible. 
That it was a ladder of rays there could, however, be 
no doubt : if only I could climb upon it ! I often tried, 
but fast as I lifted my feet to climb, down they came 
again upon the boards of the floor. At length I did 
succeed, but this time the dream had a setting. 

I have said that we were four boys, but at this time 
we were five ; there was a little baby. He was very 
ill, however, and I knew he was not expected to live. 
I remember looking out of my bed one night and see- 
ing itiy mother bending over him in her lap ; it is one 
of the few things in which I do remember my mother. 


12 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD. 

I fell asleep, but by and by woke and looked out again. 
No one was there. Not only were mother and baby 
gone, but the cradle was gone too. I knew that my 
little brother was dead. I did not cry ; I was too young 
and ignorant to cry about it. I went to sleep again, and 
seemed to wake once more, but it was into my dream 
this time. There were the sun and the moon and the 
stars. But the sun and the moon had got close together 
and were talking very earnestly, and all the stars had 
gathered round them. I could not hear a word they 
said, but I concluded that they were talking about my 
little brother. “ I suppose I ought to be sorry,” I said 
to myself 5 and I tried hard, but I could not feel sorry. 
Meantime, I observed a curious motion in the heavenly 
host. They kept looking at me and then at the corner 
where the ladder stood, and talking on, for I saw their 
lips moving very fast ; and I thought by the motion of 
them that they were saying something about the ladder. 

I got out of bed and went to it. If I could only get 
up it ! I would try once more. To my delight I found 
it would bear me. I climbed and climbed, and the sun 
and the moon and the stars looked more and more 
pleased as I got up nearer to them, till at last the sun’s 
face was in a broad smile. But they did not move from 
their places, and my head rose above them, and got out 
at the hole where the ladder came in. What I saw 
there I cannot tell. I only know that a wind such as 
had never blown upon me in my waking hours blew 
upon me now. I did not care much for kisses then, 
for I had not learned how good they are ; but some- 
how I fancied afterward that the wind was made of 
my baby brother’s kisses, and I began to love the little 
man who had lived only long enough to be our brother 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 13 


and get up above the sun and the moon and the stars 
by the ladder of sun-rays. But this, I say, I thought 
afterward. Now all that I can remember of my dream 
is that I began to weep for very delight of something I 
had forgotten, and that I fell down the ladder into the 
room again and awoke, as one always does with a fall 
in a dream. Sun, moon and stars were gone, the ladder 
of light had vanished and I lay sobbing on my pillow. 

I have taken up a great deal of room with this story 
of a dream, but it clung to me and would often return. 
And then the time of life to which this chapter refers 
is all so like one that a dream comes in well enough in 
it. There is a twilight of the mind when all things are 
strange, and when the memory is only beginning to 
know that it has got a note-book and must put things 
down in it. 

It was not long after this before my mother died, and 
I was sorrier for my father than for myself, he looked 
so sad. I have said that as far back as I can remember 
she was an invalid. Hence she was unable to be much 
with us. She is very beautiful in my memory, but 
during the last months of her life w'e seldom saw her, 
and the desire to keep the house quiet for her s^jke must 
have been the beginning of that freedom which we en- 
joyed during the whole of our boyhood. So we were 
out every day and all day long, finding our meals when 
we pleased, and that, as I shall explain, without going 
home for them. I remember her death clearly, but I 
will not dwell upon that. It is too sad to write much 
about, though she was happy and the least troubled of 
us all. Her sole concern was at leaving her husband 
and children. But the will of God was a better thing 
to her than to live with them. My sorrow, at least, 
2 


14 RANALD BANNER MAN’S BOYHOOD. 


was soon over, for God makes children so that grief 
cannot cleave to them. They must not begin life with 
a burden of loss. He knows it is only for a time. 
When I see my mother again she will not reproach me 
that my tears were so soon dried. “ Little one,” I 
think I hear her saying, “ how could you go on crying 
for your poor mother when God was mothering you all 
the time, and breathing life into you, and making the 
world a blessed place for you? You will tell me all 
about it some day.” Yes, and we shall tell our mothers 
— shall we not.? — how sorry we are that we ever gave 
them any trouble. Sometimes we were very naughty, 
and sometimes we did not know better. My mother 
was very good, but I cannot remember a single one of 
the many kisses she must have given me. I remember 
her holding my head to her bosom when she was dying 
— that is all. 


CHAPTER III. 

MY FATHER. 

M y father was a tall, staid, solemn man, who 
walked slowly with long strides. He spoke 
very little, and generally looked as if he were pondering 
next Sunday’s sermon. His head was gray and a little 
bent, as if he were gathering truth from the ground. 
Once I came upon him in the garden, standing with 
his face up to heaven, and I thought he was seeing 
something in the clouds ; but when I came nearer I saw 
that his eyes were closed, and it made me feel very 
solemn. I crept away as if I had been peeping where 
I ought not. He did not talk much to us. What he 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 15 

said was very gentle, and it seemed to me it was his 
solemnity that made him gentle. I have seen him look 
very angry. He used to walk much about his fields, 
especially of a summer morning before the sun was up. 
This was after my mother’s death. I presume he felt 
nearer to her in the fields than in the house. There 
was a kind of grandeur about him, I am sure ; for I 
never saw one of his parishioners salute him in the 
road without a look of my father himself passing like a 
solemn cloud over the face of the man or woman. For 
us, we feared and loved him both at once. I do not 
remember ever being punished by him, but Kirsty (of 
whom I shall have to speak by and by) has told me 
that he did punish us when we were very small 
children. Neither did he teach us much himself, 
except on the occasions I am about to mention, and I 
cannot say that I learned much from his sermons. 
These gave entire satisfaction to those of his parishion- 
ers whom I happened to hear speak of them ; but al- 
though I loved the sound of his voice, and liked to look 
at his face as he stood up there in the ancient pulpit 
clad in his gown and bands, I never cared much about 
what he said. Of course it was all right, and a better 
sermon than any other clergyman whatever could have 
preached, but what it was all about was of no conse- 
quence to me. I may as well confess at once that I 
never had the least doubt that my father was the best 
man in the world. Nay, to this very hour I am of the 
same opinion, notwithstanding that the son of the vil- 
lage tailor once gave me a tremendous thrashing for 
saying so, on the ground that I was altogether wrong, 
seeing his father was the best man in the world : 
at least I have learned to modify the assertion only to 


l6 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


this extent — that my father was the best man I have 
ever known. 

The church was a very old one, had seen candles 
burning, heard the little bell ringing and smelt the in- 
cense of the old Catholic service. It was so old that it 
seemed settling down again into the earth, especially 
on one side, where great buttresses had been built to 
keep it up. It leaned against them like a weary old 
thing that wanted to go to sleep. It had a short, 
square tower, like so many of the churches in England ; 
and although there was but one old, cracked bell in it, 
although there was no organ to give out its glorious 
sounds, although there was neither chanting nor respon- 
ses — I assure my English readers that the awe and 
reverence which fell upon me as I crossed its worn 
threshold were nowise inferior, as far as I can judge, 
to the awe and respect they feel when they enter the 
more beautiful churches of their country. There was 
a hush in it which demanded a refraining of the foot, a 
treading softly as upon holy ground ; and the church 
was inseparably associated with my father. 

The pew we sat in was a square one, with a table in 
the middle of it for our books. My brother David gen- 
erally used it for laying his head upon, that he might 
go to sleep comfortably. My brother Tom put his feet 
on the cross-bar of it, leaned back in his corner — for 
you see we had a corner apiece — put his hands in his 
trowsers pockets, and stared hard at my father, for 
Tom’s corner was well in front of the pulpit. My^ 
brother Allister, whose back was to the pulpit, used to 
learn the paraphrases all the time of the sermon. I, 
happiest of all in my position, could look up at my 
father, if I pleased, a little sideways ; or, if I preferred. 


The family pew and Sir Worm Wymble’s tomb. Fa^^e i6. 
2 * 





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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 19 


which I confess I often did, study — a rare sight in 
Scotch churches — the figure of an armed knight, carved 
in stone, which lay on the top of the tomb of Sir Worm 
Wymble — at least that is the nearest I can come to the 
spelling of the name they gave him. The tomb was 
close by the side of the pew, with only a flagged pas- 
sage between. It stood in a hollow in the wall, and 
the knight lay under the arch of the recess, so silent, so 
patient, with folded palms, as if praying for sonae help 
which he could not name. From the presence of this 
labor of the sculptor came a certain element into the 
feeling of the place which it could not otherwise have 
possessed : organ and chant were not altogether need- 
ful while that carved knight lay there with face up- 
turned, as if looking to heaven. 

But from gazing at the knight I began to regard the 
wall about him and the arch over him ; and from the 
arch my eye would seek the roof, and descending, rest 
on the pillars, or wander about the windows, searching 
the building of the place, discovering the points of its 
strength and how it was upheld. So that while my 
father was talking of the church as a company of be- 
lievers, and describing how it was held together by 
faith, I was trying to understand how the stone and 
lime of the old place were kept from falling asunder, 
and thus beginning to follow what has become my 
profession since, for I am an architect. 

But the church has led me away from my father. 
He always spoke in rather a low voice, but so earnestly 
that every eye, as it seemed to me, but mine and those 
of two of my brothers was fixed upon him. I think, 
however, that it was in part the fault of certain teach- 
ing of his own better fitted for our understanding that 


20 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


we paid so little heed. Even Tom, with all his staring, 
knew as little about the sermon as any of us. But my 
father did not question us much concerning it ; he did 
what was far better. On Sunday afternoons, in the 
warm, peaceful sunlight of summer, with the honey- 
suckle filling the air of the little arbor in which we sat, 
and his one glass of wine set on the table in the middle, 
he would sit for an hour talking away to us in his 
gentle, slow, deep voice, telling us story after story 
out of the New Testament, and explaining them in a 
way I have seldom heard equaled. Or, in the cold 
winter nights, he would come into the room where I 
and my two younger brothers slept — the nursery it was 
— and, sitting down with Tom by his side before the 
fire that burned bright in the frosty air, would open the 
great family Bible on the table, turn his face toward 
the two beds where we three lay wide awake, and tell 
us story after story out of the Old Testament, some- 
times reading a few verses, sometimes turning the bare 
facts into an expanded and illustrated narrative of hiS 
own, which, in Shakespeare fashion, he presented after 
the modes and ways of our own country and time. I 
shall never forget Joseph in Egypt hearing the patter- 
ing of the asses’ hoofs in the street, and throwing up the 
window, and looking out, and seeing all his own 
brothers coming riding toward him ; or the grand rush 
of the sea waves over the bewildered hosts of the 
Egyptians. We lay and listened with all the more en- 
joyment that while the fire was burning so brightly, 
and the presence of my father filling the room with 
safety and peace, the wind was howling outside and 
the snow drifting up against the window. Sometimes 
I passed into the land of sleep with his voice in my 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


21 


ears and his love in my heart ; perhaps into the land 
of visions — once certainly into a dream of the sun 
and moon and stars making obeisance to the too- 
favored son of Jacob. 


CHAPTER IV 

KIRSTY. 

M y father had a housekeeper, a trusty woman, he 
considered her. We thought her very old. I 
suppose she was about forty. She was not pleasant, 
for she was grim-faced and censorious, with a very 
straight back and a very long upper lip. Indeed, the 
distance from her nose to her mouth was greater than 
the length of her nose. When I think of her first, 
it is always as making some complaint to my father 
against us. Perhaps she meant to speak the truth, or 
rather, perhaps, took it for granted that she always did 
speak the truth ; but certainly she would exaggerate 
things and give them quite another look. The bones 
of her story might be true, but she would put a skin 
over it after her own fashion, which was not one of 
mildness and charity. The consequence was that the 
older we grew, the more our minds were alienated 
from her, and the more we came to regard her as our 
enemy. If she really meant to be our friend after the 
best fashion she knew, it was at least an uncomely kind 
of friendship, that showed itself in constant opposition, 
fault-finding and complaint. The real mistake was that 
we were boys. There was something in her altogether 
antagonistic to the boy-nature. You would have thought 


22 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

that to be a boy was in her eyes to be something wrong 
to begin with ; that boys ought never to have been 
made ; that they must always, by their very nature, be 
about something amiss. I have occasionally wondered 
how she would have behaved to a girl. On reflection, 
I think a little better ; but the girl would have been 
worse olT, because she could not have escaped from her 
as we did. My father would hear her complaints to 
the end without putting in a word, except it were to 
ask her a question, and, when she had finished, would 
turn again to his book or his sermon, saying, 

“Very well, Mrs. Mitchell; I will speak to them 
about it.” 

My impression is that he did not believe the half she 
told him. At all events, when he had sent for us he 
would ask our version of the affair, and listen to that 
as he had listened to hers. Then he would set forth to 
us where we had been wrong, if we were wrong, and 
send us away with an injunction not to provoke Mrs. 
Mitchell, who couldn’t help being short in her temper, 
poor thing ! Somehow or other we got it into our 
heads that the shortness of her temper was mysteriously 
associated with the shortness of her nose. 

She was saving even to stinginess. She would do 
her best to provide what my father liked, but for us 
she thought almost anything good enough. She would 
for instance give us the thinnest of milk ; we said she 
skimmed it three times before she thought it blue 
enough for us. My two younger brothers did not 
mind it so much as I did, for I was always rather 
delicate, and, if I took a dislike to anything, would 
rather go without than eat or drink of it. But I 
have told you enough aba it her to make it plain 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 23 


that she could be no favorite with us; and er.ough 
likewise to serve as a background to my description 
of Kirsty. 

Kirsty was a Highland woman who had the charge 
of the house in which the farm-servants lived. She 
was a cheerful, gracious, kind woman — a woman of 
God’s making, one would say, were it not that, how- 
ever mysterious it may look, we cannot deny that he 
made Mrs. Mitchell too. It is very puzzling, I confess. 
I remember once that my youngest brother Davie — a 
very little fellow then, for he could not speak plainly — 
came running in great distress to Kirsty, crying, “Fee, 
fee !” by which he meant to indicate that a flea was 
rendering his life miserable. Kirsty at once undressed 
him and entered on the pursuit. After a successful 
search, while she was putting on his garments again, 
little Davie, who had been looking very solemn and 
thoughtful for some time, said, not in a questioning, but 
in a concluding tone : 

“ God didn’t make the fees, Kirsty !” 

“ Oh yes, Davie ! God made everything. God did 
make the fl«as,’‘' said Kirsty. 

Davie was silent for a while. Then he opened his 
mouth and spake like a discontented prophet of old : 

“Why doesn’t he give them something else to eat, 
then ?” 

“You must ask himself that,” said Kirsty, with a 
wisdom I have since learned to comprehend, though I 
remember it shocked me a little at the time. 

All this set me thinking. Before the dressing of 
little Davie was over, I had my question to put to 
Kirsty. It was, in fact, the same question, only with a 
more important object in the eye of it. 


24 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


“ Then I suppose God made Mrs. Mitchell, as well 
as you and the rest of us, Kirsty I said. 

“ Certainly, Ranald,” returned Kirsty. 

“ Well, I wish he hadn’t,” was my remark, in which 
I only imitated my baby brother, who was always much 
cleverer than I. 

“ Oh, she’s not a bad sort,” said Kirsty ; “ though I 
must say, if I was her, I would try to be a little more 
agreeable.” 

To return to Kirsty : she was our constant resort. 
The farm-house was a furlong or so from the manse, 
but wi'th the blood pouring from a cut finger, the feet 
would of themselves devour that furlong rather than 
®PP^y Mrs. Mitchell. Oh, she was dear and good 
and kind, our Kirsty ! 

In person she was short and slender, with keen blue 
eyes and dark hair ; an uncommonly small foot, which 
she claimed for all Highland folk ; a light step, a sweet 
voice and a most bounteous hand — but there I come 
into the moral nature of her, for it is the mind that 
makes the hand bountiful. For her face, I think that 
was rather queer, but in truth I can hardly tell, so en- 
tirely was it the sign of good to me and my brothers ; 
in short, I loved her so much that I do not know now, 
even as I did not care then, whether she was nice- 
looking or not. She was quite as old as Mrs. Mitchell, 
but we never thought of her being old. She was our 
refuge in all time of trouble and necessity. It was she 
who gave us something to eat as often and as much as 
we wanted. She used to say it was no cheating of the 
minister to feed the minister’s boys. 

And then her stories ! There was nothing like them 
in all that country side. It was rather a dreary country 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 25 

in outward aspect, having many bleak moorland hills, 
that lay about like slow, stiffened waves, of no great 
height but of much desolation ; and as far as the imag- 
ination was concerned, it would seem that the minds of 
former generations had been as bleak as the country, 
they had left such small store of legends of any sort. 
But Kirsty had come from a region where the hills 
were hills indeed — hills with mighty skeletons of stone 
inside them j hills that looked as if they had been heaped 
over huge monsters which were ever trying to get up ; 
a country where every cliff and rock and well had its 
stojy — and Kirsty’s head was full of such. It was de- 
light indeed to sit by her fire and listen to them. That 
would be after the men had had their supper early, of 
a winter night, and had gone, two of them to the vil- 
lage and the other to attend to the horses. Then we 
and the herd, as we called the boy who attended to the 
cattle, whose work was over for the night, would sit by 
the fire, and Kirsty would tell us stories, and we were 
in our heaven. 


CHAPTER V. 

I BEGIN LIFE. 

I BEG AN life, and that after no pleasant fashion, as 
near as I can guess, about the age of six years. 
One glorious morning in early summer I found myself 
led by the ungentle hand of Mrs. Mitchell towaid a 
little school on the outside of the village kept by an old 
^oman called Mrs. Shand. In an English village I 
think she would have been called Dame Shand : we 
called her Luckie Shand. Half dragged along the 


26 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 

road by Mrs. Mitchell, from whose rough grasp 1 at 
tempted in vain to extricate my hand, I looked arouna 
at the shining fields and up at the blue sky — where a 
lark was singing as if he had just found out that he 
could sing — with something like the despair of a man 
going to the gallows and bidding farewell to the world 
We had to cross a little stream, and when we reached 
the middle of the foot-bridge, I tugged yet again at m^ 
imprisoned hand, with a half-formed intention of throw- 
ing myself into the brook. But my efforts were still 
unavailing. Over a half mile or so, rendered weary by 
unwillingness, I was led to the cottage door— no such 
cottage as some of my readers will picture, with roses 
and honeysuckle hiding its walls, but a dreary little 
house with nothing green to cover the brown stones of 
which it was built, and having an open ditch in front 
of it with a stone slab over it for a bridge. Did I say 
theie was nothing on* the walls? This morning there 
was the loveliest sunshine, and that I was going to 
leave behind. It was very bitter, especially as I had 
expected to go with my elder brother to spend the day 
at a neighboring farm. 

Mrs. Mitchell opened the door and led me in. It 
was an awful experience. Dame Shand stood at her 
table ironing. She was as tall as Mrs. Mitchell, and 
that was enough to prejudice me against her at once. 
She wore a close-fitting widow’s cap, with a black rib- 
bon round it. Her hair was gray, and her face was as 
gray as her hair, and her skin was gathered in wrinkles 
about her mouth, where they twitched and twitched, as 
if she were constantly meditating something unpleasant. 
She looked up inquiringly. 

“ I’ve brought you a new scholar,” said Mrs. Mitchell. 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 27 


“ Well. Very well,” said the dame in a dubious 
tone. “ I hope he’s a good boy, for he must be good 
if he comes here.” 

“Well, he’s just middling. His father spares the 
rod, Mrs. Shand, and we know what comes of that.” 

They went on with their talk, which, as far as I can 
recall it, was complimentary to none but the two 
women themselves. Meantime, I was making what 
observations my terror would allow. About a dozen 
children were seated on forms along the walls, looking 
over the tops of their spelling-books at the new-comer. 
In the farther corner two were kicking at each other as 
opportunity offered, looking very angry, but not daring 
to cry. My next discovery was terribly disconcerting. 
Some movement drew my eyes to the floor ; there I saw 
a boy of my own age on all-fours, fastened by a string 
to a leg of the table at which the dame was ironing, 
while, horrible to relate, a dog, not very big but very 
ugly and big enough to be frightened at, lay under the 
table watching him. I gazed in utter dismay. 

“ Ah, you may look !” said the dame. “ If you’re 
not a good boy that is how you shall be served. The 
dog shall have you to look after.” 

I trembled and was speechless. After some further 
confabulation Mrs. Mitchell took her leave, saying : 

“ I’ll come back for him at one o’clock, and if I don’t 
come, just keep him till I do come. 

The dame accompanied her to the door, and then I 
discovered that she was lame and hobbled very much. 
A resolution arose full-formed in my brain. 

I sat down on the form near the door and kept very 
quiet. Had it not been for the intention I cherished I 
am sure I should have cried. When the dame leturned 


28 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

she resumed her box-iron, in which the heater went 
rattling about, as, standing on one leg — the other was 
so much shorter — she moved it to and fro over the 
garment on the table. Then she called me to her 
by name in a would-be pompous manner. I obeyed, 
trembling. 

“ Can you say your letters ?” she asked. 

Now, although I could not read, I could repeat the 
alphabet ; how I had learned it I do not know. I did 
repeat it. 

“ How many questions of your catechism can you 
say.'^” she asked next. 

Not knowing with certainty what she meant, I was 
silent. 

“ No sulking !’* said the dame ; and opening a drawer 
in the table, she took out a catechism. Turning back 
the cover, she put it in my hand and told me to learn 
the first question. She had not even inquired whether 
I could read. I took the catechism, and stood as 
before. 

“ Go to your seat,” she said. 

I obeyed, and with the book before me pondered 
my plan. 

Everything depended on whether I could open the 
door before she could reach me. Once out of the 
house, I was sure of running faster than she could 
follow. And soon I had my first experience of how 
those are helped who will help themselves. 

The ironing of course required a fire to make the 
irons hot, and as the morning went on, the sunshine on 
the walls, conspiring with the fire on the hearth, made 
the place too hot for the comfort of the old dame. 
She went and set the door wide open. I was instantly 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 29 


on the alert, watching for an opportunity. One soon 
occurred. 

A class of some five or six was reading, if reading 
it could be called, out of the Bible. At length it came 
to the turn of one who blundered dreadfully. It was 
the same boy who had been tied under the table, but he 
had been released for his lesson. The dame hobbled 
to him, and found he had his book upside down ; where- 
upon she turned in wrath to the table, and took from 
the drawer a long leather strap, with which she pro 
ceeded to chastise him. As his first cry reached my 
ears I was halfway to the door. On the threshold I 
stumbled and fell. 

“ The new boy’s running away !” shrieked some little 
sycophant inside. 

I heard with horror, but I was up and off in a 
moment. I had not, however, got many yards from 
the cottage before I heard the voice of the dame scream- 
ing after me to return. I took no heed, only sped the 
faster. But what was my horror to find her command 
enforced by the pursuing bark of her prime minister. 
This paralyzed me. I turned, and there was the fiend- 
ish-looking dog close on my heels. I could run no 
longer. For one moment I felt as if I should sink to 
the earth for sheer terror. The next moment a \yhole- 
some rage sent the blood to my brain. From abject 
cowardice to wild attack — I cannot call it courage — 
was the change of an instant. I rushed toward the 
little wretch. I did not know how to fight him, but 
in desperation I threw myself upon him and dug my 
nails into him. They had fortunately found their way 
to his eyes. He was the veriest coward of his species. 
He yelped and howled, and struggling from my grasp. 


30 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


ran with his tail merged in his person back to his 
mistress, who was hobbling after me. But with the 
renewed strength of triumph I turned again for home, 
and ran as I had never run before. When or where 
the dame gave in, I do not know ; I never turned my 
head until I laid it on Kirsty’s bosom, and there I 
burst out sobbing and crying. It was all the utterance 
I had left. 

As soon as Kirsty had succeeded in calming me, I 
told her the whole story. She said very little, but I 
could see she was very angry. No doubt she was pon- 
dering what could be done. She got me some milk — 
half cream I do believe, it was so nice — and some oat- 
cake, and went on with her work. 

While I ate I reflected that any moment Mrs. Mitchell 
might appear to drag me back in disgrace to that horri- 
ble den. I knew that Kirsty’s authority was not equal 
to hers, and that she would be compelled to give me 
up. So I watched an opportunity to escape once more 
and hide myself, so that Kirsty might be able to say 
she did not know where I was. 

When I had finished, and Kirsty had left the kitchen 
for a moment, I sped noiselessly to the door and looked 
out into the farmyard. There was no one to be seen. 
Dark and brown and cool the door of the barn stood 
open, as if inviting me to shelter and safety, for I 
knew that in the darkest end of it lay a great heap of 
oat straw. I sped across the intervening sunshine into 
the darkness, and began burrowing in the straw like 
a wild animal, drawing out handfuls and laying them 
carefully aside, so that no disorder should betray my 
retreat. When I had made a hole large enough to 
hold me, I got in, but kept drawing out the straw 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 31 

behind me and filling the hole in front. This I con- 
tinued until I had not only stopped up the entrance, 
but placed a good thickness of straw between me and 
the outside. By the time I had burrowed as far as I 
thought necessary I was tired, and lay down at full 
length in my hole, delighting in such a sense of safety 
as I had never before experienced. I was soon fast 
asleep. 



CHAPTER VI. 


NO FATHER. 

WOKE, and creeping 
out of my lair, and peep- 
ing from the door of the 
barn, which looked into 
the corn-yard, found that 
the sun was going down. 
I had already discovered 
that I was getting hun- 
gry. I went out at the 
other door into the close 
or farm-yard and ran 
across to the house. No 
one was there. Some- 
thing moved me to climb 
on the form and look out 
of a little window, from 
which I could see the 
manse and the road from it. To my dismay, there was 
Mrs. Mitchell coming toward the farm. I possessed 
my wits sufficiently to run first to Kirsty’s press and 
secure a good supply of oat-cake, with which I then 
sped like a hunted hare to her form. I had soon drawn 
the stopper of straw into the mouth of the hole, wffiere, 
hearing no one approach, I began to eat my oat-cake, 
and fell asleep again before I had finished. 

And as I slept I dreamed my dream. The sun was 
32 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 33 

looking very grave and the moon reflected his concern. 
They were not satisfied with me. At length the sun 
shook his head ; that is, his whole self oscillated on an 
axis, and the moon thereupon shook herself in response. 
Then they nodded to each other as much as to say, 
“ That is entirely my own opinion.” At last they be- 
gan to talk — not as men converse, but both at once, yet 
each listening while each spoke. I heard no word, but 
their lips moved most busily ; their eyebrows went up 
and down ; their eyelids winked and winked, and their 
cheeks puckered and relaxed incessantly. There was 
an absolute storm of expression upon their faces ; their 
very noses twisted and curled. It seemed as if in the 
agony of their talk their countenances would go to 
pieces. For the stars, they darted about hither and 
thither, gathered into groups, dispersed and formed 
new groups, and having no faces yet, but being a sort 
of celestial tadpoles, indicated by their motions alone 
that they took an active interest in the questions agitat- 
ing their parents. Some of them kept darting up and 
down the ladder of rays like phosphorescent sparks in 
the sea-foam. 

I could bear it no longer and awoke. I was in dark- 
ness, but not in my own bed. When I proceeded to 
turn, I found myself hemmed in on all sides. I could 
not stretch my arms, and there was hardly room for 
my body between my feet and my head. I was dread- 
fully frightened at first, and felt as if I were being 
slowly stifled. As my brain awoke I recalled the hor- 
rible school, the horrible schoolmistress and the most 
horrible dog, over whose defeat, however, I rejoiced 
with the pride of a dragon-slayer. Next I thought it 
would be well to look abroad and reconnoitre once 


34 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD. 


more. 1 drew away the straw from the entrance to my 
lair, but what was my dismay to find that even when 
my hand went out into space no light came through the 
opening! What could it mean? Surely I had not 
grown blind while I lay asleep. Hurriedly I shot out 
the remainder of the stopper of straw and crept from 
the hole. In the great barn there was but the dullest 
glimmer of light ; I had almost said the clumsiest re- 
duction of darkness. I tumbled at one of the doors 
rather than ran to it. I found it fast, but this one I 
knew was fastened on the inside by a wooden bolt or 
bar which I could draw back. The open door revealed 
the dark night. Before me was the corn-yard, as we 
called it, full of ricks. Huge and very positive, although 
dim, they rose betwixt me and the sky. Between their 
tops I saw only stars and darkness. I turned and 
looked back into the barn. It appeared a horrible cave 
filled with darkness. I remembered there were rats in 
it. I dared not enter it again, even to go out at the 
opposite door : I forgot how soundly and peacefully I 
had slept in it. I stepped out into the night with the 
grass of the corn-yard under my feet, the awful vault 
of heaven over my head and those shadowy ricks 
around me. It was a relief to lay my hand on one of 
them and feel that it was solid. I half groped my way 
through them, and got out into the open field by creep- 
ing through between the stems of what had once been 
a hawthorn hedge, but had in the course of a hundred 
years grown into the grimmest, largest, most grotesque 
trees I have ever seen of the kind. I had always been 
a little afraid of them, even in the daytime, but they 
did me no hurt, and I stood in the vast hall of the 
silent night alone : there lay the awfulness of it. I 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 35 

had never before known what the night was. The real 
sting of its fear lay in this— that there was nobody else 
in it. Everybody besides me was asleep all over the 
world, and had abandoned me to my fate, whatever 
might come out of the darkness to seize me. When I 
got round the edge of the stone wall which on another 

side bounded the corn-yard, there was the moon 

crescent, as I saw her in m}^ dream, but low down 
toward the horizon and lying .almost upon her rounded 
back. She looked very disconsolate and dim. Even 
she would take no heed of me, abandoned child ! The 
stars were high up, away in the heavens. They did 
not look like the children of the sun and moon at all, 
and they took no heed of me. Yet there was a grand- 
eur in my desolation that would have elevated my heart 
but for the fear. If I had had one living creature nigh 
me— if only the stupid calf whose dull, sleepy low 
startled me so dreadfully as I stood staring about me. 
It was not dark out here in the open field, for at this 
season of the year it is not dark there all night long 
when the sky is unclouded. Away in the north was 
the Great Bear. I knew that constellation, for by it 
one of the men had taught me to find the pole star. 
Nearly under it was the light of the sun, creeping round 
by the north toward the spot in the east where he 
would rise again. But I learned only afterward to un- 
derstand this. I gazed at that pale, faded light and all 
at once I remembered that God was near me. But I 
did not know what God is then as I know now, an 1 
when I thought about him then, which was neither 
much nor often, my idea of him was not like him ; it 
was merely a confused mixture of other people's fancies 
about him and my own. I had not learned how beau- 


36 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

tiful God is ; I had only learned that he is strong. I 
had been told that he was angry with those that did 
wrong ; I had not understood that he loved them all 
the time, although he was displeased with them and 
must punish them to make them good. When I thought 
of him now, in the silent, starry night, a yet greater 
terror seized me, and I ran stumbling over the uneven 
field. 

Does my reader wonder whither I fled.? Whither 
should I fly but home? True, Mrs. Mitchell was 
there, but there was another there as well. Even 
Kirsty would not do in this terror. Home was the 
only refuge, for my father was there. I sped for the 
manse. 

But as I approached it a new apprehension laid hold 
of my trembling heart. I was not sure, but I thought 
the door was always locked at night. I drew nearer. 
The place of possible refuge rose before me. I stood 
on the grass-plot in front of it. There was no light in 
its eyes. Its mouth was closed. It was silent as one 
of the ricks. Above it shone the speechless stars. 
Nothing was alive. Nothing would speak. I went up 
the few rough-hewn granite steps that led to the door. 
I laid my hand on the handle and gently turned it. 
Joy of joys, the door opened ! I entered the hall. Ah, 
it was more silent than the night ! No footsteps echoed ; 
no voices were there. I closed the door behind me, 
and almost sick with the misery of a being where no 
other being was to comfort it, I groped my way to my 
father’s room. When I once had my hand on his door 
the warm tide of courage began again to flow from my 
heart. I opened this door too very quietly, for was not 
the dragon asleep down below ? 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 37 


“ Papa ! papa !” I cried, in an eager whisper. “Are 
you awake, papa ?” 

No voice came in reply, and the place was yet more 
silent than the night or the hall. He must be asleep. 
I was afraid to call louder. I crept nearer to the bed. 
I stretched cut my hands to feel for him. He must be 
at the farther side. I climbed up on the bed. I felt 
all across it. Utter desertion seized my soul ; my 
father was not there! Was it a horrible dream.? 
Should I ever awake ? My heart sank totally within 
me. I could bear no more. I fell down on the bed 
weeping bitterly, and wept myself asleep. 

Years after, when I was a young man, I read Jean 
Paul’s terrible dream that there was no God, and the 
desolation of this night was my key to that dream. 

Once more I awoke to a sense of misery, and stretched 
out my arms, crying, “ Papa ! papa I” The same mo- 
ment I found my father’s arms around me ; he folded 
me close to him and said : 

“Hush, Ranald, my boy I Here I am. You are 
quite safe.” 

I nestled as close to him as I could go and wept for 
blessedness. 

“ Oh, papa !” I sobbed, “ I thought I had lost you.” 

“And I thought I had lost you, my boy. Tell me 
all about it.” 

Between my narrative and my replies to his ques- 
tionings he had soon gathered the whole story, and I 
in my turn learned the dismay of the household when I 
did not appear. Kirsty told what she knew. They 
searched everywhere, but could not find me ; and great 
as my misery had been, my father’s had been greater 
than mine. While I stood forsaken and desolate in the 


4 


38 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


field, they had been searching along the banks of the 
river. But the herd had had an idea, and although 
they had already searched the barn and every place 
they could think of, he left them and ran back for a 
further search about the farm. Guided by the scattered 
straw he soon came upon my deserted lair, and sped 
back to the river-side with the news, when my father 
returned, and after failing to find me in my own bed, to 
his infinite relief found me fast asleep on his — so fast, 
that he undressed me and laid me in the bed without 
my once opening my eyes — the more strange as I had 
already slept so long. But sorrow is very sleepy. 

Having thus felt the awfulness and majesty of the 
heavens at night, it was a very long time before I again 
dreamed my childish dream. 


CHAPTER VII 


MRS. MITCHELL IS DEFEATED. 


FTER this talk with my father I fell into a sleep 



±\. of perfect contentment, and never thought of what 
might be on the morrow till the morrow came. Then 
I grew aware of the danger I was in of being carried 
off once more to school. Indeed, except my father in- 
terfered, the thing was almost inevitable. I thought he 
would protect me, but I had no assurance. He was 
gone again, for, as I have mentioned already, he was 
given to going out early in the morningSv It was not 
early now, however: I had slept much longer than 
usual. I got up at once, intending to find him ; but, to 
mv horror, before I was half dressed, my enemy, Mrs. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 39 

Mitchell, came into the room, looking triumphant and 
revengeful. 

“ I’m glad to see you’re getting up,” she said ; “ it’s 
nearly school-time.” 

The tone and the emphasis she laid on the word 
school would have sufficed to reveal the state of her 
mind, even if her eyes had not been fierce with sup- 
pressed indignation. 

“ I haven’t had my porridge,” I said. 

“Your porridge is waiting you, as cold as a stone,” 
she answered. “ If boys will lie in bed so late, what 
can they expect.?” 

“ Nothing from you,” I muttered, with more hardi- 
hood than I had yet shown her. 

“ What’s that you’re saying.?” she asked, angrily. 

I was silent. 

“ Make haste,” she went on, “ and don’t keep me 
waiting all day.” 

“You needn’t wait, Mrs. Mitchell. I am dressing 
as fast as I can. Is papa in his study yet.?” 

“ No. And you needn’t think to see him. He’s 
angry enough with you. I’ll warrant.” 

She little knew what had passed between my father 
and me already. She could not imagine what a talk 
we had had. 

“You needn’t think to run away as you did yester- 
day. I know all about it. Mrs. Shand told me all 
about it. I shouldn’t wonder if your papa’s gone to 
see her now, and tell her how sorry he is you were so 
naughty.” 

“ I’m not going to school.” 

“ We’ll see about that.” 

“ I tell you I won’t go.” 


40 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


“ And I tell you we’ll see about it.” 

“ I won’t go till I’ve seen papa. If he says I’m to 
go, I will of course, but I won’t go for you.” 

“You w///, and you wonHV^ she repeated, standing 
staring at me, as I leisurely, but with hands trembling 
partly with fear, partly with rage, was fastening my 
nether garments to my waistcoat. “ That’s all very 
fine, but I know something a good deal finer. Now 
wash your face.” 

“ I won’t, so long as you stand there,” I said, and sat 
down on the floor. She advanced toward me. 

“ If you touch me. I’ll scream,” I cried. 

She stopped, thought for a moment, and bounced 
out of the room. But I heard her turn the key of 
the door. 

I proceeded with my dressing as fast as I could then ; 
and the moment I was ready, opened the window, which 
was only a few feet from the ground, scrambled out, and 
dropped. I hurt myself a little, but not much, and fled 
for the harbor of Kirsty’s arms. But as I turned the 
corner of the house I ran right into Mrs. Mitchell’s, 
who received me with no soft embrace. In fact I was 
rather severely scratched with a pin in the bosom of 
her dress. 

“ There ! that serves you right,” she cried. “ That’s 
a judgment on you for trying to run away again. After 
all the trouble you gave us yesterday too ! You are a 
bad boy.” 

“ Why am I a bad boy ?” I retorted. 

“ It’s bad not to do what you are told.” 

“ I will do what my papa tells me.” 

“Your papa! There are more people than your 
papa in the world.” 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 41 

I*m to be a bad boy if I don’t do what anybody like 
you chooses to tell me, am I ?” 

“ None of your impudence !” 

This was accompanied by a box on the ear. She 
was now dragging me into the kitchen. ' There she set 
my porridge before me, which I declined to eat. 

“ Well, if you won’t eat good food, you shall go to 
school without it.” 

“ I tell you I won’t go to school.” 

She caught me up in her arms. She was very strong, 
and I could not prevent her carrying me out of the 
aouse. If I had been the bad boy she said I was, I 
could by biting and scratching have soon compelled 
her to set me down ; but I felt that I must not do that, 
for then I should be ashamed before my father. I there- 
fore yielded for the time, and fell to planning. Nor 
was I long in coming to a resolution. I drew the pin 
that had scratched me from her dress. I believed she 
would not carry me very far ; but if she did not set 
me down soon, I resolved to make her glad to do so. 
Further, I resolved that when we came to the foot- 
bridge, which had but one rail to it, I would run the 
pin into her and make her let me go, when I would 
instantly throw myself into the river, for I would run 
the risk of being drowned rather than go to that school. 
Were all my griefs of yesterday, overcome and on the 
point of being forgotten, to be frustrated in this fashion } 
My whole blood was boiling. I was convinced my 
father did not want me to go. He could not have 
been so kind to me during the night, and then send 
me to such a place in the morning. But, happily for 
the general peace, things did not arrive at such a des- 
perate pass. Before we were out of the gate, my heart 


42 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

leaped with joy, for I heard my father calling, “ Mrs. 
Mitchell ! Mrs. Mitchell !” I looked round, and seeing 
him coming after us with his long slow strides, I fell 
to struggling so violently in the strength of hope that 
she was glad to set me down. I broke from her, ran 
to my father and burst out crying. 

“Papa, papa!’^ I sobbed, “don’t send me to that 
horrid school. I can learn to read without that old 
woman to teach me.” 

“ Really, Mrs. Mitchell,” said my father, taking me 
by the hand and leading me toward her, where she 
stood visibly flaming with rage and annoyance — “ really, 
Mrs. Mitchell, you are taking too much upon you ! I 
never said the child was to go to that woman’s school. 

In fact, I don’t approve of what I hear of her, and I ' 
have thought of consulting some of my brethren in the 
presbytery on the matter before taking steps myself. 

I won t have the young people in my parish oppressed 
in such a fashion. Terrified with dogs, too! It is 
shameful.” 

“ She’s a very decent woman. Mistress Shand,” said 
the housekeeper. 

“ I don’t dispute her decency, Mrs. Mitchell, but I 
doubt very much whether she is fit to have the charge 
of children ; and as she is a friend of yours, you will be 
doing her a kindness to give her a hint to that effect. 

It may save the necessity for my taking farther and 
more unpleasant steps.” 

“Indeed, sir, by your leave, it would be hard lines 
to take the bread out of the mouth of a lone widow 
woman, and bring her upon the parish with a bad 
name to boot. She’s supported herself for years with 
her school and been a trouble to nobody.’’ 



I fell to struggling so violently that she was glad to set me down ’ 

Page 42 


43 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 45 


“ Except the lambs of the flock, Mrs. Mitchell. I 
like you for standing up for your friend ; but is a 
woman, because she is lone and a widow, to make a 
Moloch of herself and have the children sacrificed to 
her in that way? It’s enough to make idiots of some 
of them. She had better see to it. You tell her that 
from me, if you like. And don’t you meddle with 
school affairs. I’ll take my young men,” he added with 
a smile, “ to school when I see fit.” 

“ I’m sure, sir,” said Mrs. Mitchell, putting her blue 
striped apron to her eyes, “ I asked your opinion be- 
fore I took him.” 

“ I believe I did say something about it’s being time 
he were able to read, but I recollect nothing more. 
You must have misunderstood me,” he added, willing 
to ease her descent to the valley of her humiliation. 

She walked away without another word, sniffing the 
air as she went, and carrying her hands folded under 
her apron. From that hour I believe she hated me. 

My father looked after her with a smile, and then 
looked down on me, saying : 

“ She’s short in the temper, poor woman, and we 
mustn’t provoke her.” 

I was too well satisfied to urge my victory by farther 
complaint. I could afford to let well alone, for I had 
been delivered as from the fiery furnace, and the earth 
and the sky were laughing around me. Oh, what a 
sunshine filled the world ! How glad the larks — which 
are the praisers amongst the birds — were that blessed 
morning ! The demon of oppression had hidden her 
head ashamed and had fled to her den ! 


4 ^ RANALD BANNER MAN* S BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A NEW SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Ranald,” my father continued, “what are 
we to do about the reading.? I fear I have let 
you go too long. I didn’t want to make learning a 
burden to you, and I don’t approve of children learning 
to read too soon ; but really, at your age, you know, it 
is time you were beginning. I have time to teach you 
some things, but I can’t teach you everything. I have 
got to read a great deal and think a great deal and go 
about my parish a good deal. And your brother Tom 
has heavy lessons to learn at school and I have to help 
him. So what’s to be done, Ranald, my boy.? You 
can’t go to the parish school before you’ve learned your 
letters.” 

“ There’s Kirsty, papa,” I suggested. 

“ Yes, there’s Kirsty,” he returned, with a sly smile. 
“ Kirsty can do everything, can’t she .?” 

“ She can speak Gaelic,” I said with a tone of triumph, 
bringing her rarest accomplishment to the forefront. 

“ I wish you could speak Gaelic,” said my father, 
thinking of his wife, I believe, whose mother-tongue 
it was. “ But that is not what you want most to 
learn. Do you think Kirsty could teach you to read 
English.?” 

“ Yes, I do.” 

My father again meditated. 

“ Let us go and ask her,” he said at length, taking 
my hand. 

I capered with delight, nor ceased my capering till 
we stood on Kirsty’s earthen floor. I think I see her 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 47 

now, dusting one of her deal chairs, as white as soap 
and sand could make it, for the minister to sit on. She 
never called him the master., but always the minister. 
She was a great favorite with my father, and he always 
behaved as a visitor in her house. 

“Well, Kirsty,” he said, after the first - salutations 
were over, “ have you any objection to turn schoolmis 
tress ?” 

“ I should make a poor hand at that,*’ she answered, 
with a smile to me which showed she guessed what my 
father wanted. “ But if it were to teach Master Ranald 
there, I should like dearly to try what I could do.” 

She never omitted the Master to our names ; Mrs. 
Mitchell by no chance prefixed it. The natural man- 
ners of the Celt and Saxon are almost diametrically op- 
posed in Scotland. And had Kirsty’s speech been in 
the coarse dialect of Mrs. Mitchell, I am confident my 
father would not have allowed her to teach me. But 
Kirsty did not speak a word of Scotch, and although 
her English was a little broken and odd, being formed 
somewhat after Gaelic idioms, her tone was pure and 
her phrases were refined. The matter was very speed- 
ily settled between them. 

“ And if you want to beat him, Kirsty, you can beat 
him in Gaelic, and then he won’t feel it,” said my 
father, trying after a joke, which was no common occur- 
rence with him, whereupon Kirsty and I laughed in 
great contentment. 

The fact was, Kirsty had come to the manse with my 
mother, and my father was attached to her for the sake 
of his wife as well as for her own, and Kirsty would 
have died for the minister or any one of his boys. All 
the devotion a Highland woman has for the chief of her 


4.S RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

clan Kirsty had for my father, not to mention the rev- 
erence due to the minister. 

After a little chat about the cows and the calves my 
father rose, saying : 

“ Then I’ll just make him over to you, Kirsty. Do 
you think you can manage without letting it interfere 
with your work, though 

“ Oh yes, sir — well that ! I shall soon have him read- 
ing to me while I’m busy about. If he doesn’t know 
the word, he can spell it and then I shall know it ; at 
least if it’s not longer than Hawkie’s tail.” 

Hawkie was a fine milker, with a bad temper and a 
comically short tail. It had got chopped off by some 
accident when she was a calf. 

“ There’s something else short about Hawkie, isn’t 
there, Kirsty.^” said my father. 

“ And Mrs. Mitchell,” I suggested, thinking to help 
Kirsty to my father’s meaning. 

“ Come, come, young gentleman! We don’t want 
your remarks,” said my father, pleasantly. 

“ Why, papa, you told me so yourself just before we 
came up.” 

“ Yes, I did ; but I did not mean you to repeat it. 
What if Kirsty were to go and tell Mrs. Mitchell ?” 

Kirsty made no attempt at protestation. She knew 
well enough that my father knew there was no danger. 
She only laughed, and I, seeing Kirsty satisfied, was 
satisfied also and joined in the laugh. 

The result was that before many weeks were over 
Allister and wee Davie were Kirsty’s pupils also, Allis- 
ter learning to read and wee Davie to sit still, which 
was the hardest task within his capacity. They were 
free to come or keep away, but not to go : if they did 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 49 


come, Kirsty insisted on their staying out the lesson. 
It soon became a regular thing. Every morning in 
summer we might be seen perched on a form, under 
one of the tiny windows, in that delicious brown light 
which you seldom find but in an old clay-floored cot- 
tage. In a fir-wood I think you have it, and I have 
seen it in an old castle, but best of all in the house of 
mourning in an Arab cemetery. In the winter we 
seated ourselves round the fire — as near it as Kirsty’s 
cooking operations, which were simple enough, ad- 
mitted. It was delightful to us boys, and would have 
been amusing to any one, to see how Kirsty behaved 
when Mrs. Mitchell found occasion to pay her a visit 
during lesson-hours. She knew her step and darted to 
the door. Not once did she permit her to enter. She 
was like a hen with her chickens. 

“ No, you’ll not come in just now, Mrs. Mitchell,” 
she would say as the housekeeper attempted to pass. 
“You know we’re busy.” 

“ I want to hear how they’re getting on.” 

“You can try them at home,” Kirsty would answer. 

We always laughed at the idea of our reading to her. 
Once I believe she heard the laugh, for she instantly 
walked away, and I do not remember that she ever 
came again. 


CHAPTER IX. 

WE LEARN OTHER THINGS. 

W E were more than ever at the farm now. Dur- 
ing the summer, from the time we got up till 
the time we went to bed, we seldom approached the 

C 


5 


50 RANAj^D BANNERMAN'S boyhood. 


manse. I have heard it hinted that my father neglected 
us. But that can hardly be, seeing that then his word 
was law to us, and now I regard his memory as the 
symbol of the love unspeakable. My elder brother 
Tom always had his meals with him, and sat at his 
lessons in the study. But my father did not mind the 
younger ones running wild so long as there was a 
Kirsty for them to run to ; and indeed the men also 
were not only friendly to us, but careful over us. No 
doubt we were rather savage, very different in our ap- 
pearance from town-bred children, who are washed 
and dressed every time they go out for a walk : that we 
should have considered not merely a hardship, but an 
indignity. To be free was all our notion of a perfect 
existence. But my father’s rebuke was awful indeed 
if he found even the youngest guilty of untruth or 
cruelty or injustice. At all kinds of escapades not in- 
volving disobedience he smiled, except, indeed, there 
were too much danger, when he would warn and 
limit. 

A town boy may wonder what we could find to 
amuse us all day long ; but the fact is, almost every- 
thing was an amusement, seeing that, when we could 
not take a natural share in what was going on, we 
generally managed to invent some collateral employ- 
ment fictitiously related to it. But he must not think 
of our farm as at all like some great farm he may 
happen to know in England, for there was nothing 
done by machinery on the place. There may be great 
pleasure in watching machine-operations, but surely 
none to equal the pleasure we had. If there had been 
a steam-engine to plough my father’s fields, how could 
we have ridden home on its back in the evening? To 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 5 1 


ride the horses home from the plough was a triumph. 
Had there been a thrashing-machine, could its pleas- 
ures have been comparable to that of lying in the straw 
and watching the grain dance from the sheaves under 
the skillful flails of the two strong men who belabored 
them? There was a winnowing machine, but quite a 
tame one, for its wheel I could drive myself — the handle 
now high as my head, now low as my knee — and watch 
at the same time the storm of chaff driven like drifting 
snow-flakes from its wide mouth. Meantime, the oat- 
grain was flowing in a silent slow stream from the 
shelving hole in the other side, and the wind, rushing 
through the opposite doors, aided the winnower by 
catching at the expelled chaff and carrying it yet 
farther apart. I think I see old Eppie now filling 
her sack with what the wind blew her. Not with the 
grain : Eppie did not covet that ; she only wanted her 
bed filled with fresh springy chaff, on which she would 
sleep as sound as her rheumatism would let her, and as 
warm and dry and comfortable as any duchess in the 
land that happened to have the rheumatism too. For 
comfort is inside more than outside ; and eider-down, 
delicious as it is, has less to do with it than some people 
fancy. How I wish all the poor people in the great 
cities could have good chaff beds to lie upon ! Let me 
see: what more machines are there now? More than 
I can tell. I saw one going in the fields the other day, 
at the use of which I could only guess. Strange, wild- 
looking, mad-like machines, as the Scotch would call 
them, are growling and snapping and clinking and 
clattering over our fields, so that it seems to an old boy 
as if all the sweet poetic twilight of things were vanish- 
ing from the country ; but he reminds himself that God 


52 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD. 

is not going to sleep, for, as one of the greatest poets 
that ever lived says, he slumber etk not nor sleepeth; 
and the children of the earth are his, and he will see 
that their imaginations and feelings have food enough 
and to spare. It is his business this, not ours. So the 
work must be done as well as it can. Then, indeed, 
there will be no fear of the poetry. 

I have just alluded to the pleasure of riding the 
horses, that is, the work-horses: upon them Allister 
and I began to ride, as far as I can remember, this 
same summer— not from the plough, for the ploughing 
was in the end of the year and the spring. First of 
all we were allowed to take them at watering-time, 
watched by one of the men, from the stable to the 
long trough that stood under the pump. There, going 
hurriedly and stopping suddenly, they would drop head 
and neck and shoulders like a certain toy-bird, causing 
the young riders a vague fear of falling over the height 
no longer defended by the uplifted crest; and then 
drink and drink till the riders’ legs felt the horses’ 
bodies swelling under them ; then up and away with 
quick, refreshed stride or trot toward the paradise of 
their stalls. But for us came first the somewhat fearful 
pass of the stable-door, for they never stopped, like 
better educated horses, to let their riders dismount, but 
walked right in, and there was just room, by stooping 
low, to clear the top of the door. As we improved in 
equitation, we would go a-field to ride them home from 
the pasture, where they were fastened by chains to short 
stakes of iron driven into the earth. There was more 
of adventure here, for not only was the ride longer, but 
the horses were more frisky, and would sometimes set 
oft at the gallop. Then the chief danger was again 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. $3 


the door, lest they should dash in, and knock knees 
against posts and heads against lintels, for we had only 
halters to hold them with. But after I had once been 
thrown from back to neck and from neck to ground in 
a clumsy but wild gallop extemporized by Dobbin, T 
was raised to the dignity of a bridle, which I always 
carried with me when we went to fetch them. It was 
my father’s express desire that until we could sit well 
on the bare back we should not be allowed a saddle. 
It was a whole year before I was permitted to mount 
his little black riding mare, called Missy. She was 
old, it is true — nobody quite knew how old she was — 
but if she felt a light weight on her back, either the 
spirit of youth was contagious or she fancied herself 
as young as when she thought nothing of twelve stone, 
and would dart off like the wind. In after years I got 
so fond of her that I would stand by her side flacking 
the flies from her as she grazed ; and when I tired of 
that, would clamber upon her back, and lie there read- 
ing my book, while she plucked on and ground and 
mashed away at the grass as if nobody were near her. 

Then there was the choice, if nothing else were 
found more attractive, of going to the field where the 
cattle were grazing. Oh, the rich hot summer after- 
noons among the grass and the clover, the little lamb- 
daisies, and the b?g horse-daisies, with the cattle feeding 
solemnly, but one and another straying now to the corn 
now to the turnips, and recalled by stern shouts, or 
if that were unavailing, by vigorous pursuit and even 
blows ! If I had been able to think of a mother at 
home, I should have been perfectly happy. Not that 
I missed her then — I had lost her too young for that — 
I mean that the memory of the time v/ants but that to 


54 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

render it perfect in bliss. Even in the cold days of 
spring, when, after being shut up all the winter, the 
cattle were allowed to revel again in the springing 
grass and the venturesome daisies, there was pleasure 
enough in the company and devices of the cowherd, 
a freckle faced, white-haired, weak-eyed boy of ten, 
named — I forget his real name ; we always called him 
Turkey, because his nose was the color of a turkey’s 
Who but Turkey knew mushrooms from toad- 
stools.? Who but Turkey could detect earth-nuts, and 
that with the certainty of a truffle-hunting dog? Who 
but Turkey knew the note and the form and the nest 
and the eggs of every bird in the country? Who but 
Turkey, with his little whip and its lash of brass-wire, 
would encounter the angriest bull in Christendom, pro- 
vided he carried, like the bulls of Scotland, his most 
sensitive part, the nose, foremost? In our eyes Turkey 
was a hero. Who but Turkey could discover the nests 
of hens whose maternal anxiety had eluded finesse 
of Kirsty? and who so well as he could roast the egg 
with which she always rewarded such a discovery? 
Words are feeble before the delight we experienced on 
such an occasion, when Turkey, proceeding to light a 
fire against one of the earthen w^alls which divided the 
fields, would send us abroad to gather sticks and straws 
and whatever outcast combustibles we could find, of 
which there was a great scarcity, there being no woods 
or hedges within reach. Who like Turkey could rob 
a wild bees’ nest? And who could be more just than 
he in distributing the luscious prize? In fine, his ac- 
complishments were innumerable. Short of flying, we 
believed him capable of everything imaginable. 

What rendered him yet dearer to us was that there 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD, 55 


was enmity between him and Mrs. Mitchell. It came 
about in this way. Although a good milker, and there- 
fore of necessity a good feeder, Hawkie was yet, upon 
temptation, subject to the inroads of an unnatural appe- 
tite. When she found a piece of an old shoe in the 
field, she would, if not compelled to drop the delicious 
mouthful, go on the whole morning or afternoon in the 
impossibility of a final deglutition, chewing and chew- 
ing at the savory morsel. Should this have happened, 
it was in vain for Turkey to hope escape from the dis- 
covery of his inattention, for the milk-pail would that 
same evening or next morning reveal the fact to Kirsty’s 
watchful eyes. But fortunately for us, in so far as it 
was well to have an ally against our only enemy, Haw- 
kie’s morbid craving was not confined to old shoes. 
One day, when the cattle were feeding close by the 
manse, she found on the holly hedge which surrounded 
it Mrs. Mitchell’s best cap, laid out to bleach in the 
sun. It was a tempting morsel. More susceptible of 
mastication than shoe-leather, Mrs. Mitchell, who had 
gone for another freight of the linen with which she 
was sprinkling the hedge, arrived only in time to see 
the end of one of its long strings gradually disappearing 
into Hawkie’s mouth on its way after the rest of the 
cap, which had gone the length of the string farther. 
With a wild cry of despair she flew at Hawkie, so in- 
tent on the stolen delicacy as to be more open to a 
surprise than usual, and laying hold of the string, drew 
from her throat the deplorable mass of pulp to which 
she had reduced the valued gaud. The same moment 
Turkey, who had come running at her cry, received 
full in his face the slimy and sloppy extract. Nor was 
this all, for Mrs. Mitchell flew at him in her fury, and 


5 ^ RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

with an outburst of abuse boxed his ears soundly, be- 
fore he could recover his senses sufficiently to run for 
it. The degradation of this treatment had converted 
Turkey into an enemy before ever he knew that we 
also had good grounds for disliking her. His opinion 
concerning her was freely expressed, to us if to no one 
else, generally in the same terms. He said she was as 
bad as she was ugly, and always spoke of her as the old 
witch. 

But what brought Turkey and us together more than 
anything else was that he was as fond of Kirsty’s 
stories as we were ; and in the winter, especially, we 
would sit together in the evening, as I have already 
said, round her fire and the great pot upon it full of the 
most delicious potatoes, while Kirsty knitted away vig- 
orously at her blue, broad-ribbed stockings, and kept a 
sort of time to her story with the sound of her needles. 
When the story flagged the needles went slower ; in the 
more animated passages they would become invisible 
for swiftness, save for a certain shimmering flash that 
hovered about her fingers like a dim electric play ; but 
as the story approached some crisis their motion would 
at one time become perfectly frantic, at another cease , 
altogether as finding the subject beyond their power of 
accompanying expression. When they ceased we 
knew that something awful indeed was at hand. 

In my next chapter I will give a specimen of her 
stories, choosing one which bears a little upon an aftei 
adventure. 


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CHAPTER X. 

SIR WORM WYMBLE. 



T was a snowy evening 
in the depth of winter. 
Kirsty had promised to 
tell us the tale of the 
armed knight who lay 
in stone upon the tomb 
in the church ; but the 
snow was so deep that 
Mrs. Mitchell, always 
glad when nature put 
it in her power to ex- 
ercise her authority in 
a way disagreeable to 
us, had refused to let 
the little ones go out 
all day. Therefore 
Turkey and I, when 
he darkness began to grow thick enough, went prowl- 
ng and watching about the manse until we found an 
)pportunity when she was out of the way. The mo- 
nent this occurred we darted into the nursery, which 
vas on the ground-floor, and catching up my two 
)rothers, I wee Davie, he Allister, we hoisted them on 
)ur backs and rushed from the house. It was snowing. 
:t came down in huge flakes, but although it was only 
lalf-past four o’clock they did not show any whiteness, 


DO RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

for there was no light to shine upon them. You might 
have thought there had been mud in the cloud they 
came from, which had turned the mall a dark gray. 
How the little ones did enjoy it, spurring their horses 
with suppressed laughter, and urging us on lest the 
old witch should hear and overtake us ! But it was 
hard work for one of the horses, and that was myself. 
Turkey scudded away with his load, and made nothing 
of it ; but wee Davie pulled so hard with his little arms 
round my neck, especially when he was bobbing up 
and down to urge me on, half in delight, half in terror, 
that he nearly choked me ; while if I went one foot 
off the scarcely beaten path, I sunk deep in the fresh 
snow. 

“ Doe on, doe on, Yanal !” cried Davy ; and Yanal 
did his very best, but was only halfway to the farm 
when Turkey came bounding back to take Davie from 
him. In a few moments we had shaken the snow off our 
shoes and off Davie’s back, and stood around Kirsty’s 
“ booful baze,” as Davie called the fire. Kirsty seated 
herself on one side with Davie on her lap, and we 
three got our chairs as near her as we could, with 
Turkey, as the valiant man of the party, farthest from 
the centre of safety, namely Kirsty, who was at the 
same time to be the source of all the delightful horror. 

I may as well say that I do not believe Kirsty’s tale 
had the remotest historical connection with Sir Worm 
Wymble, if that was anything like the name of the 
dead knight. It was an old Highland legend, which 
she adorned with the flowers of her own Celtic 
fancy, and swathed around the form so familiar to 
:is all. 

“ There is a pot in the Highlands,” began Kirsty, 


RANALD BANNER MAN* S BOYHOOD. 6l 


“ not far from our house, at the bottom of a little glen. 
It is not very big, but fearfully deep — so deep that they 
do say there is no bottom to it.” 

“An iron pot, Kirsty?” asked Allister. 

“ No, goosey,” aiLSwered Kirsty. “ A pot means 
a great hole full of water — black, black, and deep, 
deep.” 

“ Oh !” remarked Allister, and was silent. 

“ Well, in this pot there lived a kelpie.” 

“ What’s a kelpie, Kirsty?” again interposed Allister, 
who in general asked all the necessary questions and at 
least as many unnecessary. 

“ A kelpie is an awful creature that eats people.” 

“ But what is it like, Kirsty ?” 

“It’s something like a horse, with a head like a 
cow.” 

“ How big is it? — as big as Hawkie.?” 

“Bigger than Hawkie ; bigger than the biggest ox 
you ever saw.” 

“ Has it a great mouth?” 

“ 'Yes ; a terrible mouth.” 

“With teeth?” 

“ Not many, but dreadfully big ones.” 

“ Oh !” 

“ Well, there was a shepherd many years ago who 
lived not far from the pot. He was a knowing man, 
and understood all about kelpies and brownies and 
fairies. And he put a branch of the rowan tree {rnoun- 
iain-ash)., with the red berries in it, over the door of 
his cottage, so that the kelpie could never come in. 

“ Now the shepherd had a very beautiful daughter — 
so beautiful that the kelpie wanted very much to eat 
her. I suppose he had lifted up his head out of the pot 
6 


62 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 


some day and seen her go past, but he could not come 
out of the pot except after the sun was down.” 

“ Why?” asked Allister. 

“ I don’t know. It was the nature of the beast. His 
eyes couldn’t bear the light, I suppose, but he could 
see in the dark quite well. One night the girl woke 
suddenly and saw his great head looking in at her 
window.” 

“But how could she see him when it was dark?” 
said Allister. 

“ His eyes were flashing so that they lighted up all 
his head,” answered Kirsty. 

“ But he couldn’t get in !” 

“ No ; he couldn’t get in. He was only looking in 
and thinking how he should like to eat her. So in the 
morning she told her father. And her father was very 
frightened, and told her she must never be out one mo- 
ment after the sun was down. And for a long time the 
girl was very careful. And she had need to be, for the 
creature never made any noise, but came up as quiet as 
a shadow. One afternoon, however, she had gone to 
meet her lover a little way down the glen, and they 
stopped talking so long about one thing and another 
that the sun was almost set before she bethought her- 
self. She said good-night at once and ran for home. 
Now she could not reach home without passing the 
pot, and just as she passed the pot she saw the last 
sparkle of the sun as he went down.” 

“ I should think she ran,” remarked our mouthpiece, 
Allister. 

“ She did run,” said Kirsty, “ and had just got past 
the awful black pot, which was terrible enough day or 
night without such a beast in it, when — ” 



‘ But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew in her foo* 
and was safe.” 65, 


63 




1 


V 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOl'HOOD. 65 

“ But there was the beast iu it?” said Allister. 

“ When,” Kirsty went on without heeding him, “ she 
heard a great whish of water behind her. That was 
the water tumbling oft' the beast’s back as he came up 
from the bottom. If she ran before, she flew now. 
And the worst of it was that she couldn’t hear him be- 
hind her, so as to tell whereabouts he was. He might 
be just opening his mouth to take her every moment. 
At last she reached the door, which her father, who had 
gone out to look for her, had set wide open that she 
might run in at once ; but all the breath was out of her 
body, and she fell down flat just as she got inside.” 

Here Allister jumped from his seat, clapping his 
hands and crying : 

“ Then the kelpie didn’t eat her ? Kirsty ! Kirsty !” 

“ No. But as she fell, one foot was left outside the 
threshold, so that the rowan branch could not take care 
of it. And the beast laid hold of the foot with his 
great mouth, to drag her out of the cottage and eat her 
at his leisure.” 

Here Allister’s face was a picture to behold. His 
hair was almost standing on end, his mouth was open 
and his face as white as my paper. 

“Make haste, Kirsty,” said Turkey, “or Allister 
will go in a fit.” 

“ But her shoe came off in his mouth, and she drew 
in her foot and was safe.” 

Allister’s hair subsided. He drew a deep breath and 
sat down again. But Turkey must have been a very 
wise or a very unimaginative Turkey, for here he broke 
in with : 

“ I don’t believe a word of it, Kirsty.” 

“ What !” said Kirsty— “ don’t believe it !” 


66 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

No, She lost her shoe in the mud. It was some 
wild duck she heard in the pot, and there was no beast 
after her. She never saw it, you know.’’ 

“ She saw it look in at her window.” 

^ “ Yes, yes. That was in the middle of the night. 
I ve seen as much myself when I waked up in the mid- 
dle of the night. I took a rat for a tiger once.” 

Kirsty was looking angry, and her needles were 
going even faster than when she approached the climax 
of the shoe, 

“Hold your tongue, Turkey,” I said, “and let us 
hear the rest of the story.” 

But Kirsty kept her eyes on her knitting and did not 
resume. 

“ Is that all, Kirsty ?” said Allister. 

Still Kirsty returned no answer. She needed all her 
force to overcome the anger she was busy stifling, for 
It would never do for one in her position to lose her 
temper because of the unbelieving criticism of a herd- 
boy. It was a curious instance of the electricity flashed 
out in the confluence of unlike things— the Celtic faith 
and the Saxon works. For anger is just the electric 
flash of the mind, and requires to have its conductor of 
common sense ready at hand. After a few moments 
she began again as if she had never stopped and no re- 
marks had been made, only her voice trembled a little 
at first. 

“ Her father came home soon after, in great distress, 
and there he found her lying just within the door. He 
saw at once how it was, and his anger was kindled 
against her lover more than the beast. Not that he had 
any objection to her going to meet him ; for although 
he was a gentleman and his daughter only a shep- 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 67 

herd’s daughter, they were both of the blood of the 
MacLeods.” 

This was Kirsty’s own clan. And indeed I have 
since discovered that the original legend on which her 
story was founded belongs to the island of Rasay, from 
which she came. 

“ But why was he angry with the gentleman ?” asked 
Allister. 

“ Because he liked her company better than he loved 
herself,” said Kirsty. “At least that was what the 
shepherd said, and that he ought to have seen her 
safe home. But he didn’t know that MacLeod’s father 
had threatened to kill him if ever he spoke to the girl 
again.” 

“But,” said Allister, “I thought it was about Sir 
Worm Wymble, not Mr. MacLeod.” 

“ Sure, boy, and am I not going to tell you how he 
got the new name of him?” returned Kirsty, with an 
eagerness that showed her fear lest the spirit of inquiry 
should spread. “ He wasn’t Sir Worm Wymble then. 
His name was — ” 

Here she paused a moment, and looked full at 
Allister. 

“ His name was Allister— Allister MacLeod.” 

“Allister!” exclaimed my brother, repeating the 
name as an incredible coincidence. 

“Yes, Allister,” said Kirsty. “ There s been many 
an Allister, and not all of them MacLeods, that did 
what they ought to do, and didn’t know what fear was. 
And you’ll be another, my bonny Allister, I hope, she 
added, stroking the boy’s hair. 

Allister’s face flushed with pleasure. It was long 
before he asked another question. 


63 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 

“ Well, as I say,” resumed Kirsty, “ the father of her 
was very angry, and said she should never go and meet 
Allister again. But the girl said she ought to go once 
and let him know why she could not come any more, 
for she had no complaint to make of Allister, and she 
had agreed to meet him on a certain day the week after ; 
and there was no post-office in those parts. And so she 
did meet him, and told him all about it. And Allister 
said nothing much then. But next day he came striding 
up to the cottage, at dinner-time, with his claymore 
{g-ladius major) at one side, his dirk at the other 
and his little skene dubh {black knij^e) in his stocking. 
And he was grand to see— such a big strong gentleman ! 
And he came striding up to the cottage where the shep- 
herd was sitting at his dinner. 

“ ‘ Angus MacQueen,’ says he, ‘ I understand the 
kelpie in the pot has been rude to your Nelly. I am 
going to kill him.’ ‘How will you do that, sir.?’ said 
Angus, quite short, for he was the girl’s father. ‘ Here’s 
a claymore I could put in a peck,’ said Allister, mean- 
ing it was such good steel that he could bend it round 
till the hilt met the point without breaking ; ‘ and here’s 
a shield made out of the hide of old Rasay’s black bull ; 
and here’s a dirk made of a foot and a half of an old 
Andrew Ferrara ; and here’s a skene dubh that I’ll 
drive through your door, Mr. Angus. And so we’re 
fitted, I hope.’ ‘ Not at all,’ said Angus, who as I told 
you was a wise man and a knowing ; ‘ not one bit,’ said 
Angus. ‘ The kelpie’s hide is thicker than three bull- 
hides, and none of your weapons would do more than 
rnark it. ‘What am I to do then, Angus.? — for kill 
him 1 will somehow.’ ‘I’ll tell you what to do, but it 
needs a brave man to do that.’ ‘ And do you think I’m 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 09 


not brave enough for that, Angus ?’ ‘ I know one thing 

you are not brave enough for/ ‘ And what’s that ?’ said 
Allister, and his face grew red, only he did not want 
to anger Nelly’s father. ‘You’re not brave enough to 
marry my girl in the face of the clan,’ said Angus. 
‘ But you sha’n’t go on this way. If my Nelly’s good 
enough to talk to in the glen, she’s good enough to lead 
into the hall before the ladies and gentlemen.’ 

“ Then Allister’s face grew redder still, but not with 
anger, and he held down his head before the old man, 
but only for a few moments. When he lifted it again, 
it was pale, not with fear but with resolution, for he 
had made up his mind like a gentleman. ‘ Mr. Angus 
MacQiieen,’ he said, ‘ will you give me your daughter 
to be my wife ?’ ‘ If you kill the kelpie, I will,’ an- 

swered Angus ; for he knew that the man who could 
do that would be worthy of his Nelly.” 

“ But what if the kelpie ate him ?” suggested Allister. 

“ Then he’d have to go without the girl,” said Kirsty, 
coolly. “ But,” she resumed, “ there’s always some way 
of doing a difficult thing ; and Allister, the gentleman, 
had Angus, the shepherd, to teach him. 

“ So Angus took Allister down to the pot, and there 
they began. They tumbled great stones together, and 
set them up in two rows at a little distance from each 
other, making a lane between the rows big enough for 
the kelpie to walk in. If the kelpie heard them, he 
could not see them, and they took care to get into the 
cottage before it was dark, for they could not finish their 
preparations in one day. And they sat up all night, 
and saw the huge head of the beast looking in now at 
one window, now at another, all night long. As soon 
as the sun was up, they set to work again, and finished 


O RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


the two rows of stones all the way from the pot to the 
top of the little hill on which the cottage stood. Then 
they tied a cross of rowan-tree twigs on every stone, so 
that once the beast was in the avenue of stones he could 
only get out at the end. And this was Nelly’s part of 
the job. Next they gathered a quantity of furze and 
brushwood and peat, and piled it in the end of the 
avenue next the cottage. Then Angus went and killed 
a little pig, and dressed it ready for cooking. 

“ ‘ Now you go down to my brother Hamish,’ he said 
to Mr. MacLeod — ‘ he’s a carpenter, you know — and 
ask him to lend you his longest wimble.’ ” 

“ What’s a wimble.?” asked little Allister. 

“A wimble is a long tool, like a great gimlet, with 
a cross handle, with which you turn it like a screw. 
And Allister ran and fetched it, and got back only half 
an hour before the sun went down. Then they put 
Nelly into the cottage and shut the door. But I ought 
to have told you that they had built up a great heap of 
stones behind the brushwood, and now they lighted the 
brushwood, and put down the pig to roast by the fire, 
and laid the wimble in the fire halfway up to the handle. 
Then they laid themselves down behind the heap of 
stones and waited. 

“ By the time the sun was out of sight, the smell of 
the roasting pig had got down the avenue to the side 
of the pot, just where the kelpie always got out. He 
smelt it the moment he put up his head, and he thought 
it smelt so nice that he would go and see where it was. 
The moment he got out he was between the stones, but 
he never thought of that, for it was the straight way 
to the pig. So up the avenue he came, and as it was 
dark, and his big soft web feet made no noise, the men 



“They put Nelly into the cottage and shut the door.” 

Page 70. 


71 






RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 73 

could not see him until he came into the light of the 
fire. ‘ There he is !’ said Allister. ‘ Hush !’ said Angus, 

‘ he can hear well enough.* So the beast came on. 
Now Angus had meant that he should be busy with 
the pig before Allister should attack him ; but Allister 
thought it was a pity he should have the pig, and he 
put out his hand and got hold of the wimble, and drew 
it gently out of the fire. And the wimble was so hot 
that it was as white as the whitest moon you ever saw. 
The pig was so hot also that the brute was afraid to 
touch it, and before ever he put his nose to it Allister 
had thrust the wimble into his hide, behind the left 
shoulder, and was boring away with all his might. 
The kelpie gave a hideous roar, and turned away to 
run from the wimble. But he could not get over the 
row of crossed stones, and he had to turn right round 
in the narrow space before he could run. Allister, how- 
ever, could run as well as the kelpie, and he hung on 
to the handle of the wimble, giving it another turn at 
every chance as the beast went floundering on ; so that 
before he reached his pot the wimble had reached his 
heart, and the kelpie fell dead on the edge of the pot. 
Then they went home, and when the pig was properly 
done they had it for supper. And Angus gave Nelly 
to Allister, and they were married and lived happily 
ever after.” 

“ But didn’t Allister’s father kill him.^” 

“ No. He thought better of it, and didn’t. He was 
very angry for a while, but he got over it in time. And 
Allister became a great man, and because of what he 
had done, he was called Allister MacLeod no more, 
but Sir Worm Wymble. And when he died,” con- 
cluded Kirsty, “ he was buried under the tomb in your 
7 D 


74 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


father’s church. And if you look close enough, you’ll 
find a wimble carved on the stone, but I’m afraid it’s 
worn out by this time.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE KELPIE. 


ILENCE followed the close of Kirsty’s tale. Wee 



Davie had taken no harm, for he was fast asleep 
with his head, on her bosom. Allister was staring into 
the fire, fancying he saw the whorls of the wimble heat- 
ing in it. Turkey was cutting at his stick with a blunt 
pocket-knife, and a silent whistle on his puckered lips. 
I was sorry the story was over, and was growing stupid 
under the reaction from its excitement. I was, however, 
meditating a strict search for the wimble carved on the 
knight’s tomb. All at once came the sound of a latch 
lifted in vain, followed by a thundering at the outer door, 
which Kirsty had prudently locked. Allister, Turkey 
and I started to our feet, Allister with a cry of dismay, 
Turkey grasping his stick. 

“ It’s the kelpie !” cried Allister. 

But the harsh voice of the old witch followed, sor.^e- 
thing deadened by the intervening door. 

“ Kirsty ! Kirsty !” it cried ; “ open the door directly.” 

“ No, no, Kirsty !” I objected. “ She'll shake wee 
Davie to bits and haul Allister through the snow. 
She’s afraid to touch me.” 

Turkey thrust the poker in the fire, but Kirsty 
snatched it out, threw it down and boxed his ears, 
which rough proceeding he took with the pleasantest 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 75 


laugh in the world, not being the least bit angry. 
Kirsty could do what she pleased, for she was no 
tyrant. She turned to us. 

“ Hush !” she said, hurriedly, with a twinkle in her 
eyes that showed the spirit of fun was predominant. 
“ Hush ! — don’t speak, wee Davie,” she continued as 
she rose and carried him from the kitchen into the pas- 
sage between it and the outer door. He was scarcely 
awake. 

Now in that passage, which was wide, and indeed 
more like a hall in proportion to the cottage, had stood 
on its end from time immemorial a huge barrel, which 
Kirsty, with some housewifely intent or other, had 
lately cleaned out. Setting Davie down, she and 
Turkey lifted first me and popped me into it, and then 
Allister, for we caught the design at once. Finally she 
took up wee Davie, and, telling him to lie as still as a 
mouse, dropped him into our arms. I happened to 
find the open bung-hole near my eye and peeped out. 
The knocking continued. 

“ Wait a bit, Mrs. Mitchell,” screamed Kirsty ; “ wait 
till I get my potatoes off the fire.” 

As she spoke she took the great bow-pot in one hand 
and carried it to the door to pour away the water. 
When she unlocked and opened the door I saw through 
the bung-hole a lovely sight, for the moon was shining 
and the snow was falling thick. In the midst of it 
stood Mrs. Mitchell, one mass of whiteness. She 
would have rushed in, but Kirsty’s advance with the 
pot made her give way, and from behind Kirsty, Turkey 
slipped out and round the corner without being seen. 
There he stood watching, but busy at the same time 
kneading snow-balls. 


76 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


“ And what may you please to want to-night, Mrs 
Mitchell?” said Kirsty, with great civility. 

“ What should I want but my poor children? They 
ought to have been in bed an hour ago. Really, 
Kirsty, you ought to have more sense at your years 
than to encourage any such goings on.” 

“ At my years !” returned Kirsty, and was about to 
give a sharp retort, but checked herself, saying, 
“Aren’t they in bed then, Mrs. Mitchell?” 

“ You know well enough they are not.” 

“ Poor things ! I would recommend you to put them 
to bed at once.” 

“ So I will. Where are they?” 

“ Find them yourself, Mrs. Mitchell. You had bet- 
ter ask a civil tongue to help you. I’m not going to 
do it.” 

They were standing just inside the door. Mrs. 
Mitchell advanced. I trembled. It seemed impossible 
she should not see me as well as I saw her. I had a 
vague impression that by looking at her I should draw 
her eyes upon me ; but I could not withdraw mine from 
the bung-hole. I was fascinated ; and the nearer she 
came, the less could I keep from watching her. When 
she turned into the kitchen it was a great relief ; but it 
did not last long, for she came out again in a moment, 
searching like a hound. She was taller than Kirsty, 
and by standing on her tiptoes could have looked right 
down into the barrel. She was approaching it with 
that intent— those eyes were about to overshadow us 
with their baleful light. Already her apron hid all 
other vision from my one eye, when a whizz, a dull 
blow and a shriek from Mrs. Mitchell came to my ears 
together. The next moment the field of my vision was 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 77 


open, and I saw Mrs. Mitchell holding her head with 
both hands and the face of Turkey grinning round the 
corner of the open door. Evidently he wanted to en- 
tice her to follow him ; but she had been too much 
astonished by the snow-ball in the back of her neck 
even to look in the direction whence the blow had 
come. So Turkey stepped out, and was just poising 
himself in the delivery of a second missile when she 
turned sharp round. 

The snow-ball missed her and came with a great 
bang against the barrel. Wee Davie gave a cry of 
alarm, but there was no danger now, for Mrs. Mitchell 
was off after Turkey. In a moment Kirsty lowered the 
barrel on its side and we all crept out. I had wee 
Davie on my back instantly, while Kirsty caught up 
Allister, and we were off for the manse. As soon as 
we were out of the yard, however, we met Turkey, 
breathless. He had given Mrs. Mitchell the slip and 
left her searching the barn for him. He took Allister 
from Kirsty and we sped away, for it was all down 
hill now. When Mrs. Mitchell got back to the farm- 
house, Kirsty was busy as if nothing had happened, 
and when, after a fruitless search, she returned to the 
manse, we were all snug in bed, with the door locked. 
After what had passed about the school, Mrs. Mitchell 
did not dare make any disturbance. 

From that night she always went by the name of the 
Kelpie, 

7 * 


78 RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


CHAPTER XII. 

ANOTHER KELPIE. 

I N the summer we all slept in a large room ir. tfiC 
wide, sloping roof. It had a dormer-window at 
no great distance above the eaves. One day there was 
something doing about the ivy which covered all the 
gable and half the front of the house, and the ladder 
they had been using was left leaning against the back. 
It reached a little above the eaves, right under the 
dormer-window. That night I could not sleep, as was 
not unfrequently the case with me. On such occasions 
I used to go wandering about the upper part of the 
house. I believe the servants thought I walked in my 
sleep, but it was not so, for I always knew what I was 
about well enough. I do not remember whether this 
began after that dreadful night when I woke in the 
barn, but I do think the enjoyment it gave me was 
rooted in the starry loneliness in which I had then 
found myself. I wonder if I can explain my feelings.? 
The pleasure arose from a sort of sense of protected 
danger. On that memorable night I had been, as it 
wete, naked to all the silence, alone in the vast uni- 
verse, which kept looking at me full of something it 
knew, but would not speak. Now, when wandering 
about sleepless, I could gaze as from a nest of safety 
out upon the beautiful fear. From window to window 
I would go in the middle of the night, now staring into 
a blank darkness out of which came — the only signs of 
its being— the rain-drops that bespattered or the hail- 
stones that berattled the panes ; now gazing into the 
deeps of the blue vault, gold-bespangled with its worlds. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 79 

or, again, into the mysteries of soft clouds, all gathered 
into an opal tint by the centre-clasp of the moon, think- 
ing out her light over its shining and shadowy folds. 

This, I have said, was one of those nights on which 
I could not sleep. It was the summer after the winter- 
story of the kelpie, I believe ; but the past is confused, 
and its chronology worthless, to the continuous now of 
childhood. The night was hot ; my little brothers were 
sleeping loud, as wee Davie called snoring., and a 
great moth had got within my curtains somewhere anck 
kept on fluttering and whirring. I got up and went to 
the window. It was such a night! The moon was 
full, but rather low, and looked just as if she were 
thinking, “ Nobody is heeding me: I may as well go 
to bed.” All the top of the sky was covered with 
mackerel-backed clouds, lying like milky ripples on a 
blue sea, and through them the stars shot, here and 
there, sharp little rays like sparkling diamonds. There 
was no awfulness about it, as on the night when the 
gulfy sky stood over me, flashing with the heavenly 
host, and nothing was between me and the farthest 
world. The clouds were like the veil that hid the 
terrible light in the Holy of Holies — a curtain of God’s 
love, to dim with loveliness the grandeur of their own 
being, and make his children able to bear it. My eye 
fell upon the top rounds of the ladder, which rose above 
the edge of the roof like an invitation. I opened the 
window, crept through, and, holding on by the ledge, 
let myself down over the slates, feeling with my feet 
for the top of the ladder. In a moment I was upon it. 
Down I went, and oh how tender to my bare feet was 
the cool grass on which I alighted 1 I looked up. The 
dark house-wall rose above me. I could ascend again 


8o RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 


when I pleased. There was no hurry. I would walk 
about a little. I would put my place of refuge yet a 
little farther off, nibble at the danger, as it were — a 
danger w'hich existed only in my imagination. I went 
outside the high holly hedge, and the house was hidden. 
A grassy field was before me, and just beyond the field 
rose the farm-buildings. Why should not I run across 
and wake Turkey.? I was off like a shot, the expecta- 
tion of a companion in my delight overcoming all the 
^remnants of lingering apprehension. I knew there was 
only one bolt, and that a manageable one, between me 
and Turkey, for he slept in a little wooden chamber 
partitioned off from a loft in the barn, to which he had 
to climb a ladder. The only fearful part was the cross- 
ing of the barn-floor. But I was man enough for that. 
I reached and crossed the yard in safety, searched for 
and found the key of the barn, which was always left 
in a hole in the wall by the door, turned it in the 
lock, and crossed the floor as fast as the darkness would 
allow me. With outstretched groping hands I found 
the ladder, ascended, and stood by Turkey’s bed. 

“ Turkey, Turkey ! wake up !” I cried. “ It’s such a 
beautiful night ! It’s a shame to lie sleeping that way.” 

Turkey’s answer was immediate. He was wide 
awake and out of bed with all his wits by him in a 
moment. 

“ Sh ! sh !” he said, “ oi you’ll wake Oscar.” 

Oscar was a colley {sheep^dog^ which slept in a 
kennel in the corn-yard. He was not much of a 
watch-dog, for there was no great occasion for watch- 
ing, and he knew it, and slept like a human child ; 
but he was the most knowing of dogs. Turkey was 
proceeding to dress. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. , 8 1 

“ Never mind your clothes, Turkey,” I said. “ There's 
nobody up.” 

Willing enough to spare himself trouble, Turkey 
followed me in his shirt. But once we were out in 
the corn-yard, instead of finding contentment in the 
sky and the moon, as I did, he wanted to know what 
we were going to do. 

“ It’s not a bad sort of night,” he said ; “ what shall 
we do with it.?” 

He was always wanting to do something. 

“ Oh, nothing,” I answered ; “ only look about us 
a bit.” 

“You didn’t hear robbers, did you.?” he asked. 

“ Oh dear, no ! I couldn’t sleep, and got down the 
ladder, and came to wake you, that’s all.” 

“ Let’s have a walk, then,” he said. 

Now that I had Turkey there was scarcely more 
terror in the night than in the day. I consented at 
once. That we had no shoes on was not of the least 
consequence to Scotch boys. I often, and Turkey al- 
ways, went barefooted in summer. 

As we left the barn, Turkey had caught up his little 
whip. He was never to be seen without either that or 
his club, as we called the stick -he carried when he was 
herding the cattle. Finding him thus armed, I begged 
him to give me his club. He ran and fetched it, andj 
thus equipped, we set out for nowhere in the middle 
of the night. My fancy was full of fragmentary notions 
of adventure, in which shadows from The Pilgrim’s 
Progress predominated. I shouldered my club, trying 
to persuade my imagination that the unchristian weapon 
had been won from some pagan giant, and therefore 
was not unfittingly carried. But Turkey was far better 

D* 


82 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

armed with his lash of wire than I was with the club. 
His little whip was like that fearful weapon called the 
morning star in the hand of some stalwart knight. 

We took our way toward the nearest hills, thinking 
little of where we went so that we were in motion. 
I guess that the story I have just related must, notwith- 
standing his unbelief, have been working in Turkey’s 
brain that night, for after we had walked for a mile 
or more along the road, and had arrived at the foot 
of a wooded hill well known to all the children of 
the neighborhood for its bilberries, he turned into the 
hollow of a broken track, which lost itself in a field 
as yet only half redeemed from the moorland. It was 
plain to me now that Turkey had some goal or other 
in his view, but I followed his leading, and asked no 
questions. All at once he stopped, and said, pointing 
a few yards in front of him : 

“ Look, Ranald !” 

I did look, but the moon was behind the hill, and 
the night was so dim that I had to keep looking for 
several moments ere I discovered that he was point- 
ing to the dull gleam of dark water. Very horrible it 
seemed. I felt my flesh creep the instant I saw it. It 
lay in a hollow left by the digging out of peat, drained 
thither from the surrounding bog. My heart sank with 
fear. The almost black glimmer of its surface was bad 
enough, but who could tell what lay in its unknown 
depth.? But, as I gazed, almost paralyzed, a huge dark 
figure rose up on the opposite side of the pool. Foi 
one moment the skepticism of Turkey seemed to fail 
him, for he cried out, “ The kelpie ! The kelpie !” and 
turned and ran. 

I followed as fast as feet utterly unconscious of the 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 83 


ground they trod upon could bear me. We had not 
gone many yards before a great roar filled the silent 
air. That moment Turkey slackened his pace, and 
burst into a fit of laughter. 

“ It’s nothing but Bogbonny’s bull, Ranald !” he 
cried. 

Kelpies were unknown creatures to Turkey, but i 
bull was no more than a dog or a sheep, or any other 
domestic animal. I, however, did not share his equa- 
nimity, and never slackened my pace till I got up with 
him. 

“ But he’s rather ill-natured,” he went on the instant 
I joined him, “ and we had better make for the hill.” 

Another roar was a fresh spur to our speed. We 
could not have been in better trim for running. But it 
was all up hill, and had it not been that the ground for 
some distance between us and the animal was boggy, 
so that he had to go round a good way, one of us at 
least would have been in evil case. 

“ He’s caught sight of our shirts,” said Turkey, pant- 
ing as he ran, “ and he wants to see what they are. 
But we’ll be over the fence before he comes up with us. 
I wouldn’t mind for myself, I could dodge him well 
enough, but he might go after you, Ranald.” 

What with fear and exertion I was unable to reply. 
Another bellow sounded nearer, and by and by we 
could hear the dull stroke of his hoofs on the soft 
ground as he galloped after us. But the fence of dry 
stones, and the larch wood within it, were close at 
hand. 

“ Over with you, Ranald !” cried Turkey, as if with 
his last breath, and turned at bay, for the brute was 
close behind him. 


84 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOIHOOD. 

But I was so spent I could not climb the wall, and 
when I saw Turkey turn and face the bull I turned too. 
We were now in the shadow of the hill, but I could just 
see Turkey lift his arm. A short, sharp hiss and a 
roar followed. The bull tossed his head as in pain, 
left Turkey and came toward me. He could not charge 
at any great speed, for the ground was steep and un- 
even. I, too, had kept hold of my weapon, and al- 
though I was dreadfully frightened, I felt my courage 
rise at Turkey’s success, and lifted my club in the hope 
that it might prove as good at need as Turkey’s whip. 
It was well for me, however, that Turkey was too 
quick for the bull. He got between him and me, and 
a second stinging cut from the brass wire drew a second 
roar from his throat, and no doubt a second red stream- 
let from his nose, while my club descended on one of 
his horns with a bang which jarred my arm to the 
elbow and sent the weapon flying over the fence. The 
animal turned tail for a moment — long enough to place 
us, enlivened by our success, on the other side of the 
wall, where we crouched so that he could not see us. 
Turkey, however, kept looking up at the line of the 
wall against the sky, and as he looked, over came the 
nose of the bull within a yard of his head. Hiss went 
the little whip and bellow went the bull. 

“ Get up among the trees, Ranald, for fear he comes 
over,” said Turkey, in a whisper. 

I obeyed. But as he could see nothing of his foes, 
the animal had had enough of it, and we heard no 
more of him. 

After a while Turkey left his lair and joined me. 
We rested for a little, and would then have clambered 
to the top of the hill, but we gave up the attempt as 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 85 


awkward after getting into a furze bush. In our con- 
dition it was too dark. I began to grow sleepy, also, 
and thought I should like to exchange the hillside for 
my bed. Turkey made no objection, so we trudged 
home again ; not without sundry starts and quick 
glances to make sure that the bull was neither after us 
on the road nor watching us from behind this bush or 
that hillock. Turkey never left me till he saw me safe 
up the ladder ; nay, after I was in bed I spied his face 
peeping in at the window from the topmost round of it. 
By this time the east had begun to begin to glow, as 
Allister, who was painfully exact, would have said ; 
but I was fairly tired now, and, falling asleep at once, 
never woke until Mrs. Mitchell pulled the clothes off 
me, an indignity which I keenly felt, but did not yet 
know how to render impossible for the future. 

8 




CHAPTER XIII. 

WANDERING WILLIE. 



T that time there were a good 
many beggars going about 
the country, who lived upon 
the alms of the charitable. 
Among these were some 
half-witted persons, who, 
although not to be depended 
upon, were seldom to any 
extent mischievous. We 
were not much afraid of 
them, for the home neigh- 
borhood is a charmed spot 
round which has been drawn 
a magic circle of safety, and 
we seldom roamed far be- 
yond it. There was, how- 
ever, one occasional visitor 
of this class of whom we 

stood in some degree of awe. 

1 le was commonly styled Foolish Willie. His ap- 
{ roach to the manse was always announced by a wail 
ful strain upon the bagpipes, a set of which he had in- 
herited from his father, who had been piper to some 
Highland nobleman ; at least, so it was said. Willie 
never went without his pipes, and was more attached 
to them than to any living creature. He played them 
86 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 87 

well, too, though in what corner he kept the amount of 
intellect necessary to the mastery of them was a puzzle. 
The probability seemed that his wits had not decayed 
until after he had become in a measure proficient in the 
use of the chanter, as they call that pipe by means of 
whose perforations the notes are regulated. However 
this may be, Willie could certainly play the pipes, and 
was a great favorite because of it — with children espe- 
cially, notwithstanding the mixture of fear which his 
presence always occasioned them. Whether it was 
from our Highland blood or from Kirsty’s stories I do 
not know, but we were always delighted when the far- 
oft' sound of his pipes reached us : little Davie would 
dance and shout with glee. Even the Kelpie — Mrs. 
Mitchell, that is — was benignantly inclined toward 
Wandering Willie, as some people called him after the 
old song — so much so that Turkey, who always tried to 
account for things, declared his conviction that Willie 
must be Mrs. Mitchell’s brother, only she was ashamed 
and wouldn’t own him. I do not believe he had the 
smallest atom of corroboration for the conjecture, 
which therefore was bold and worthy of the inventor. 
One thing we all knew, that she would ostentatiously 
fill the canvas bag which he carried by his side with 
any broken scraps she could gather, would give him as 
much milk to drink as he pleased, and would speak 
kind, almost coaxing, words to the poor natural — 
words which sounded the stranger in our ears that they 
were quite unused to like sounds from the lips of the 
Kelpie. 

It is impossible to describe Willie’s dress : the agglom- 
eration of ill-supplied necessity and superfluous whim 
was never exceeded. His pleasure was to pin on his 


88 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

person whatever gay-colored cotton handkerchiefs he 
could get hold of ; so that, with one of these behind and 
one before, spread out across back and chest, he always 
looked like an ancient herald come with a message 
from knight or nobleman. So incongruous was his 
costume that I could never tell whether kilt or trowsers 
was the original foundation upon which it had been 
constructed. To his tatters add the bits of old ribbon, 
list and colored rag which he attached to his pipes 
wherever there was room, and you will see that he 
looked all flags and pennons — a moving grove of rag- 
gery, out of which came the screaming chant and drone 
of his instrument. When he danced he was like a 
whirlwind that had caught up the contents of an old- 
clothes shop. It is no wonder that he should have 
produced in our minds an indescribable mixture of awe 
and delight — awe, because no one could tell what he 
might do next, and delight because of his oddity, agility 
and music. The first sensation was always a slight 
fear, which gradually wore off* as we became anew 
accustomed to the strangeness of the apparition. Be- 
fore the visit was over, wee Davie would be playing 
with the dangles of his pipes and laying his ear to the 
bag out of which he thought the music came ready- 
made. And Willie was particularly fond of Davie, and 
tried to make himself agreeable to him after a hundred 
grotesque fashions. The awe, however, was con- 
stantly renewed in his absence, partly by the threats of 
the Kelpie that, if so and so, she would give this one 
or that to Foolish Willie to take away with him — a 
threat which now fell almost powerless upon me, but 
still told upon Allister and Davie. 

One day in early summer — it was after I had begun 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 89 

to go to school — I came home as usual at five o’clock, 
to find the manse in great commotion. Wee Davie had 
disappeared. They were looking for him everywhere 
without avail. Already all the farm-houses had been 
thoroughly searched. An awful horror fell upon me, 
and the most frightful ideas of Davie’s fate arose in my 
mind. I remember giving a howl of dismay the mo- 
ment I heard of the catastrophe, for which I received a 
sound box on the ear from Mrs. Mitchell. I was too 
miserable, however, to show any active resentment, 
and only sat down upon the grass and cried. In a few 
minutes my father, who had been away visiting some 
of his parishioners, rode up on his little black mare. 
Mrs. Mitchell hurried to meet him, wringing her hands 
and crying : 

“Oh, sir! oh, sir I Davie’s away with Foolish 
Willie 1” 

This was the first I had heard of Willie in connection 
with the affair. My father turned pale, but kept per- 
fectly quiet. 

“Which way did he go.?” he asked. 

Nobody knew. 

“ How long is it ago 

“About an hour and a half, I think,” said Mrs. 
Mitchell. 

To me the news was some relief. Now I could at 
least do something. I left the group and hurried away 
to find Turkey. Except my father, I trusted more in 
Turkey than in any one. I got on a rising ground near 
the manse and looked all about until I found where the 
cattle were feeding that afternoon, and then darted off 
at full speed in that direction. They were at some 
distance from home, and I found that Turkey had heard 


90 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

nothing of the mishap. When I had succeeded in 
conveying the dreadful news, he shouldered his club 
and said : 

“ The cows must look after themselves, Ranald !” 
W^ith the words he set off at a good swinging trot in 
the direction of a little rocky knoll in a hollow about half 
a mile away, which he knew’ to be a favorite haunt of 
Wandering Willie as often as he came into the neigh- 
borhood. On this knoll grew some stunted trees, 
gnarled and old, with very mossy stems. There was 
moss on the stones, too, and between them grew lovely 
harebells, and at the foot of the knoll there were always 
in the season tall foxgloves, which had imparted a cer- 
tain fear to the spot in my fancy. For there they call 
them Dead Man*s Bells^ and I thought there was a 
murdered man buried somewhere thereabout. I should 
not have liked to be there alone even in the broad day- 
light. But with Turkey I would have gone at any 
hour, even without the impulse which now urged me 
to follow him at my best speed. There was some 
marshy ground between us and the knoll, but we floun- 
dered through it; and then Turkey, who was some dis- 
tance ahead of me, dropped into a walk, and began to 
reconnoitre the knoll with some caution. I soon got 
up with him. ^ 

“ He’s there, Ranald 1” he said. 

“ Who Davie ?” 

“ I don’t know about Davie, but Willie’s there.” 

“ How do you know 

“ I heard his bagpipes grunt. Perhaps Davie sat 
down upon them.” 

“ Oh, run, Turkey !” I said, eagerly. 

“No hurry,” he returned. “If Willie has him he 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 91 


won’t hurt him, but it mayn’t be easy to get him away. 
We must creep up and see what can be done.” 

Half dead as some of the trees were, there was 
foliage enough upon them to hide Willie, and Turkey 
hoped it would help to hide our approach. He went 
down on his hands and knees and thus crept toward 
the knoll, skirting it partly, because a little way round 
it was steeper. I followed his example, and found I 
was his match at crawling in four-footed fashion. 
When we reached the steep side we lay still and list- 
ened. 

He’s there !” I cried in a whisper. 

“ Sh !” said Turkey; “I hear him. It’s all right. 
We’ll soon have a hold of him.” 

A weary whimper, as of a child worn out with hope- 
less crying, had reached our ears. Turkey immediately 
began to climb the side of the knoll. 

“ Stay where you are, Ranald,” he said. “ I can go 
up quieter than you.” 

I obeyed. Cautious as a deer-stalker he ascended, 
still on his hands and knees. I strained my eyes after 
his every motion. But when he was near the top he 
lay perfectly quiet, and continued so till I could bear it 
no longer and crept up after him. When I came up 
behind him he looked round angrily and made a most 
emphatic contortion of his face, after which I dared not 
climb to a level with him, but lay trembling with ex- 
pectation. The next moment I heard him call in a 
low whisper : 

“ Davie ! Davie ! wee Davie !” 

But there was no reply. He called a little louder, 
evidently trying to reach by degrees just the pitch that 
would pierce to Davie’s ears and not arrive at Wander- 


92 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


ing Willie’s, who I rightly presumed was farther off. 
His tones grew louder and louder, but had not yet 
risen above a sharp whisper, when at length a small 
trembling voice cried “ Turkey ! Turkey !” in prolonged 
accents of mingled hope and pain. There was a sound 
in the bushes above me — a louder sound and a rush. 
Turkey sprang to his feet and vanished. I followed. 
Before I reached the top, there came a despairing cr) 
from Davie, and a shout and a gabble from Willie. 
Then followed a louder shout and a louder gabble, 
mixed with a scream from the bagpipes, and an exult- 
ing laugh from Turkey. All this passed in the moment 
I spent in getting to the top, the last step of which was 
difficult. There was Davie alone in the thicket, Turkey 
scudding down the opposite slope with the bagpipes 
under his arm, and Wandering Willie pursuing him 
in a foaming fury. I caught Davie in my arms from 
where he lay sobbing and crying “Yanal! Yanal !” 
and stood for a moment not knowing what to do, but 
resolved to fight with teeth and nails before Willie 
should take him again. Meantime, Turkey led Willie 
toward the deepest of the boggy ground, in which both 
were very soon floundering, only Turkey, being the 
lighter, had the advantage. When I saw that, I re- 
solved to make for home. I got Davie on my back, 
and slid down the farther side to skirt the bog, for I 
knew I should stick in it with Davie’s weight added 
to my own. I had not gone far, however, before a 
howl from Willie made me aware that he had caught 
sight of us ; and looking round, I saw him turn from 
Turkey and come after us. Presently, however, he 
hesitated, then stopped, and began looking this way 
and that from the one to the other of his treasures, 



- Willie came on in fury, his rags fluttering like ten scarecrows.” 

Page 95. 


93 




RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 95 

both in evil hands. Doubtless his indecision would 
have been very ludicrous to any one who had not such 
a stake in the turn of the scale. As it was, he made 
up his mind far too soon, for he chose to follow Davie. 
I ran my best in the very strength of despair for some 
distance, but, seeing very soon that I had no chance, I 
set Davie down, telling him to keep behind me, and 
prepared, like the Knight of the Red Cross, “ sad battle 
to darrayne.” Willie came on in fury, his rags flutter- 
ing like ten scarecrows, and he waving his arms in 
the air, with wild gestures and grimaces and cries 
and curses. He was more terrible than the bull, and 
Turkey was behind him. I was just like a negro, pre- 
paring to run my head into the pit of his stomach, and 
so upset him if I could, when I saw Turkey running 
toward us at full speed, blowing into the bagpipes as 
he ran. How he found breath for both I cannot under- 
stand. At length, he put the bag under his arm, and 
forth issued such a combination of screeching and 
grunting and howling that Wandering Willie, in the 
full career of his rage, turned at the cries of his com- 
panion. Then came Turkey’s masterpiece. He dashed 
the bagpipes on the ground, and commenced kicking 
them before him like a football, and the pipes cried out 
at every kick. If Turkey’s first object had been their 
utter demolition, he could not have treated them more 
unmercifully. It was no time for gentle measures : my 
life hung in the balance. But this was more than 
Willie could bear. He turned from us, and once again 
pursued his pipes. When he had nearly overtaken him, 
Turkey gave them a last masterly kick, which sent 
them flying through the air, caught them as they fell, 
and again sought the bog, while I, hoisting Davie on 


96 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


my back, hurried with more haste than speed toward 
the manse. 

What took place after I left them I have only from 
Turkey’s report, for I never looked behind me till I 
reached the little green before the house, where, setting 
Davie down, I threw myself on the grass. I remember 
nothing more till I came to myself in bed. 

When Turkey reached the bog, and had got Wander- 
ing Willie well into the middle of it, he threw the bag- 
pipes as far beyond him as he could, and then made his 
way out. Willie followed the pipes, took them, held 
them up between him and the sky as if appealing to 
heaven against the cruelty, then sat down in the middle 
of the bog upon a solitary hump and cried like a child. 
Turkey stood and watched him, at first with feelings of 
triumph, which by slow degrees cooled down, until at 
length they passed over into compassion, and he grew 
heartily sorry for the poor fellow, although there was 
no room for repentance. After Willie had cried for a 
while, he took the instrument as if it had been the 
mangled corpse of his son, and proceeded to examine 
it. Turkey declared his certainty that none of the pipes 
were broken ; but when at length Willie put the mouth- 
piece to his lips, and began to blow into the bag, alas ! 
it would hold no wind. He flung it from him in anger 
and cried again. Turkey left him crying in the middle 
of the bog. He said it was a pitiful sight. 

It was long before Willie appeared in that part of 
the country again; but about six months after some 
neighbors who had been to a fair twenty miles off 
told my father that they had seen him looking much 
as usual, and playing his pipes with more energy than 
ever. This was a great relief to my father, who could 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 97 


not bear the idea of the poor fellow’s loneliness without 
his pipes, and had wanted very much to get them re- 
paired for him. But ever after my father showed a 
great regard for Turkey. I heard him say once that, 
if he had had the chance, Turkey would have made a 
great general. That he should be judged capable of 
so much was not surprising to me ; yet he became in 
consequence a still greater being in my eyes. 

When I set Davie down and fell myself on the grass, 
there was nobody near. Every one was engaged in a 
new search for Davie. My father had rode off at once, 
without dismounting, to inquire at the neighboring toll- 
gate whether Willie had passed through. It was not 
very likely, for such wanderers seldom take to the hard 
high road, but he could think of nothing else, and it 
was better to do something. Having failed there, he 
had returned and ridden along the country road which 
passed the farm toward the hills, leaving Willie and 
Davie far behind him. It was twilight before he re- 
turned. How long, therefore, I lay upon the grass I 
do not know. When I came to myself, I found a sharp 
pain in my side. Turn how I would there it was, and 
I could draw but a very short breath for it. I was in 
my father’s bed, and there was no one in the room. 
I lay for some time in increasing pain ; but in a little 
while my father came in, and then I felt that all was as 
it should be. Seeing me awake, he approached with 
an anxious face. 

“ Is Davie all right, father.?” I asked. 

“ He is quite well, Ranald, my boy. How do you 
feel yourself now.?” 

“I’ve been asleep, father.?” 

“Yes ; we found you on the grass, with Davie pull- 
9 E 


98 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOTHOOD. 

ing at you and trying to. wake you, crying, ‘Yanal 
won’t ’peak to me. Yanal ! Yanal !’ I am afraid you 
had a terrible run with him. Turkey, as you call him, 
told me all about it. He’s a fine lad, Turkey !” 

“ Indeed he is, father !” I cried with a gasp which 
betrayed my suffering. 

“ What is the matter, my boy.?” he asked. 

Lift me up a little, please,” I said ; “ I have such a 
pain in my side !” 

“ Ah !” he said, “ it catches your breath. We must 
send for the old doctor !” 

The old doctor was a sort of demigod in the place. 
Everybody believed and trusted in him, and nobody 
could die in peace without him any more than with- 
out my father. I was delighted at the thought of 
being his patient. I think I see him now stand- 
ing with his back to the fire, and taking his lancet 
from his pocket, while preparations were being made 
for bleeding me at the arm, which was a far commoner 
operation then than it is now. 

That night I was delirious and haunted with bag- 
pipes. Wandering Willie was nowhere, but the atmos- 
phere was full of bagpipes. It was an unremitting 
storm of bagpipes — silent, but assailing me bodilv from 
all quarters— now small as motes in the sun, and hail- 
ing upon me ; now large as feather beds, and ready to 
bang us about, only they never touched us ; now huge 
as Mount Etna, and threatening to smother us beneath 
their ponderous bulk, for all the time I was toiling on 
with little Davie on my back. Next day I was a little 
better, but very weak, and it was many days before I 
was able to get out of bed. My father soon found that 
it would not do to let Mrs. Mitchell attend upon me. 


RANALD SANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 99 


for I was always worse after she had been in the room 
for any time ; so he got another woman to take Kirsty’s 
duties and set her to nurse me, after which illness be- 
came almost a luxury. With Kirsty near nothing 
could go wrong. And the growing better was pure 
enjoyment. 

Once, when Kirsty was absent for a little while, Mrs. 
Mitchell brought me some gruel. 

“ The gruers not nice,’* I said. 

“ It’s perfectly good, Ranald, and there’s no merit in 
complaining when everybody’s trying to make you as 
comfortable as they can,” said the Kelpie. 

“ Let me taste it,” said Kirsty, who that moment en- 
tered the room. “ It’s not fit for anybody to eat,” she 
said, and carried it away, Mrs. Mitchell following her 
with her nose horizontal. 

Kirsty brought the basin back full of delicious gruel, 
well boiled and supplemented with cream. I am sure 
the way in which she transformed that basin of gruel 
has been a lesson to me ever since as to the quality of 
the work I did. No boy or girl can have a much bet- 
ter lesson than to do what must be done as well as it 
can be done. Everything — the commonest — well done 
is something for the progress of the world ; that is, 
lessens, if by the smallest hair’s-breadth, the distance 
between it and God. 

Oh what a delight was that first glowing summer 
afternoon upon which I was carried out to the field 
where Turkey was herding the cattle ! I could not yet 
walk. That very morning, as I was being dressed by 
Kirsty, I had insisted that I could walk quite well, and 
Kirsty had been over-persuaded into letting me try. 
Not feeling steady on my legs, I set off running, but 


lOO RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


tumbled on my knees by the first chair I came near. 
I was so light from the wasting of my illness that 
Kirsty herself, little woman as she was, was able to 
carry me. I remember well how I saw everything 
double that day, and found it at first very amusing. 
Kirsty set me down on a plaid in the grass, and the 
next moment Turkey, looking awfully big and por- 
tentously healthy, stood by my side. I wish I might 
give the conversation in the dialect of my native coun- 
try, for it loses much in translation ; but I have prom- 
ised, and I will keep my promise. 

“ Eh, Ranald I” said Turkey, “ if s not yourself.?” 

“It’s me, Turkey,” I said, nearly crying with 
pleasure. 

“ Never mind, Ranald,” he returned, as if consoling 
me in some disappointment ; “ we’ll have rare fun yet.” 

“ I’m frightened at the cows, Turkey. Don’t let 
them come near me.” 

“ No, that I won’t,” answered Turkey, brandishing 
his club to give me confidence. “ /’// give it them if 
they look at you fr6m between their ugly horns.” 

“Turkey,” 1 said, for I had often pondered the 
matter during my illness, “ how did Hawkie behave 
while you were away with me — that day, you know 

“ She ate about half a rick of green corn,” answered 
Turkey, coolly. “ But she had the worst of it. They 
had to make a hole in her side or she would have died. 
There she is — off to the turnips !” 

He was after her with shout and flourish. Hawkie 
heard and obeyed, turning round on her hind legs with 
a sudden start, for she knew from his voice that he was 
in a dangerously energetic mood. 

“ You’ll be all right again soon,” he said, coming 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. lOi 


quietly back to me. Kirsty had gone to the farm- 
house, leaving me with injunctions to Turkey concern- 
ing me. 

“ Oh yes, I’m nearly well now, only I can’t walk 
yet.” 

“ Will you come on my back.?”’ he said. 

When Kirsty returned to take me home, there was I 
following the cows on Turkey’s back, riding him about 
wherever I chose, for my horse was obedient as only a 
dog or a horse or a servant from love can be. From 
that day I recovered very rapidly. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

ELSIE DUFF. 

H OW all the boys and girls stared at me as 
timidly, yet with a sense of importance derived 
from the distinction of having been so ill, I entered the 
parish school one morning about ten o’clock! For, as 
I said before, I had gone to school for some months 
before I was taken ill. It was a very different affair 
from Dame Shand’s tyrannical little kingdom. Here 
were boys of all ages, and girls likewise, ruled ovei by 
an energetic young man with a touch of genius, man- 
ifested chiefly in an enthusiasm for teaching. He had 
spoken to me kindly the first day I went, and had so 
secured my attachment that it never wavered, not even 
when, once, supposing me guilty of a certain breach of 
orders committed by my next neighbor, he called me 
up, and, with more severity than usual, ordered me to 
hold up my hand. The lash stung me dreadfully, but 
I was able to smile in his face notwithstanding. I 


102 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 

could not have done that had I been guilty. He 
dropped his hand, already lifted for the second blow, 
and sent me back to my seat. I suppose either his 
heart interfered, or he saw that I was not in need of 
more punishment. The greatest good he did me— one 
for which I shall be ever grateful— was the rousing in 
me of a love for English literature, especially poetry. 
But I cannot linger upon this at present, tempting al- 
though it be. I have led a busy life in the world since, 
but it has been one of my greatest comforts when the 
work of the day was over— dry work if it had not been 
that I had it to do — to return to my books and live in 
the company of those who were greater than myself 
and had had a higher work in life than mine. The 
master used to say that a man was fit company for any 
man whom he could understand, and therefore I hope 
often that some day, in some future condition of exist- 
ence, I may look upon the faces of Milton and Bacon 
and Shakespeare, whose writings have given me so 
much strength and hope throughout my life here. 

The moment he saw me the master came up to 
me and took me by the hand, saying he was glad to 
see me able to come to school again. 

“ You must not try to do too much at first,” he 
added. 

This set me on my mettle, and I worked hard and 
with some success. But before the morning was over 
I giew very tired, and fell fast asleep with my head on 
the desk. I was informed afterward that the mastei 
had interfered when one of my class-fellows was trying 
to wake me, and told him to let me sleep. 

When one o’clock came I was roused by the noise 
of dismissal for the two hours for dinner. I staggered 


RANALD BANNBRMAN’S BOYHOOD. 103 


out, still stupid with sleep, and whom should I find 
watching for me by the door-post but Turkey ! 

“ Turkey !” I exclaimed ; “ you here !” 

“ Yes, Ranald,” he said ; “ Tve put the cows up for 
an hour or two, for it was very hot, and Kirsty said I 
might come and carry you home.” 

So saying he stooped before me and took me on his 
strong back. As soon as I was well settled he turned 
his head and said : 

“ Ranald, I should like to go and have a look at 
my mother. Will you come.? There’s plenty of 
time.” 

“ Yes, please, Turkey,” I answered. “ I’ve never 
seen your mother.” 

He set off at a slow, easy trot, and bore me through 
street and lane until we arrived at a two-story house, 
in the roof of which his mother lived. She was a 
widow and had only Turkey. What a curious place 
her little garret was ! The roof sloped down on one 
side to the very floor, and there was a little window in 
it, from which I could see away to the manse, a mile 
ofl', and far beyond it. Her bed stood in one corner, 
with a check curtain hung from a rafter in front of it. 
In another was a chest which contained all their spare 
clothes, including Turkey’s best garments, which he 
went home to put on every Sunday morning. In the 
little grate smouldered a fire of oak bark, from which 
all the astringent virtue had been extracted in the pits 
at the tanyard, and which was given to the poor for 
nothing. 

Turkey’s mother was sitting near the little window, 
spinning. She was a spare, thin, sad-looking woman, 
with loving eyes and slow speech. 


104 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


“Johnnie !” she exclaimed, “ what brings you here? 
and who’s this you’ve brought with you ?” 

Instead of stopping her work as she spoke, she made 
her wheel go faster than before ; and I gazed with ad- 
miration at her deft fingering of the wool, from which 
the thread flowed in a continuous line, as if it had been 
something plastic, toward the revolving spool. 

“ It’s Ranald Bannerman,” said Turkey, quietly. 
“ I’m his horse. I’m taking him home from the school. 
This is the first time he’s been there since he was 
ill.” 

Hearing this she relaxed her labor, and the hooks, 
which had been revolving so fast that they were invis- 
ible in a mist of motion, began to dawn into form, until 
at length they revealed their shape, and at last stood 
quite still. She rose and said : 

“ Come, Master Ranald, and sit down. You’ll be 
tired of riding such a rough horse as that.” 

“ No, indeed,” I said ; “ Turkey is not a rough horse ; 
he’s the best horse in the world.” 

“ He always calls me Turkey, mother, because of my 
nose,” said Turkey, laughing. 

“And what brings you here.?” asked his mother. 
“ This is not on the road to the manse.” 

“ I wanted to see if you were better, mother.” 

“ But what becomes of the cows?” 

“Oh, they’re all safe enough. They know I’m 
here.” 

“Well, sit down and rest you both,” she said, re- 
suming her own place at the wheel. “ I’m glad to see 
you, Johnnie, so be your work is not neglected. I must 
go on with mine.” 

Thereupon Turkey, who had stood waiting his 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 105 

• 

mother’s will, deposited me upon her bed and sat 
down beside me. 

“And how’s your papa, the good man.?” she said 
to me. 

I told her he was quite well. 

“ All the better that you’re restored from the grave, 
I don’t doubt,” she said. 

I had never known before that I had been in any 
danger. 

“ It’s been a sore time for him and you too,” she 
added. “You must be a good son to him, Ranald, 
for he was in a great way about you, they tell me.” 

Turkey said nothing, and I was too much surprised 
to know what to say ; for as often as my father had 
come into my room he had always looked cheerful, and 
I had had no idea that he was uneasy about me. 

After a little more talk, Turkey rose and said we 
must be going. 

“ Well, Ranald,” said his mother, “ you must come 
and see me any time when you’re tired at the school, 
and you can lie down and rest yourself a bit. Be a 
good lad, Johnnie, and mind your work.” 

“Yes, mother. I’ll try,” answered Turkey, cheerfully, 
as he hoisted me once more upon his back. “ Good- 
day, mother,” he added, and left the room. 

I mention this little incident because it led to other 
things afterward. I rode home upon Turkey’s back; 
and with my father’s leave, instead of returning to 
school that day, spent the afternoon in the fields with 
Turkey. 

In the middle of the field where the cattle were that 
day there was a large circular mound. I have often 
thought since that it must have been a barrow, with 


lo6 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

dead men’s bones in the heart of it, but no such suspi- 
cion had then crossed my mind. Its sides were rather 
steep and covered with lovely grass. On the side 
farthest from the manse, and without one human dwell- 
ing in sight, Turkey and I lay that afternoon, in a bliss 
enhanced to me, I am afraid, by the contrasted thought 
of the close, hot, dusty schoolroom, where my class- 
fellows were talking, laughing and wrangling, or per- 
haps trying to work in spite of the difficulties of after- 
dinner disinclination. A fitful little breeze, as if itself 
subject to the influence of the heat, would wake up for 
a few moments, wave a few heads of horse-daisies, waft 
a few strains of odor from the blossoms of the white 
clover, and then die away fatigued with the effort. 
Turkey took out his Jew’s-harp, and discoursed sooth- 
ing if not eloquent strains. 

At our feet, a few yards from the mound, ran a 
babbling brook, which divided our farm from the next. 
Those of my readers whose ears are open to the music 
of Nature must have observed how different are the 
songs sung by different brooks. Some are a mere tink- 
ling, others are sweet as silver bells, with a tone besides 
which no bell ever had. Some sing in a careless, de- 
fiant tone. This one sung in a veiled voice, a contralto 
muffled in the hollows of overhanging banks, with a 
low, deep, musical gurgle in some of the stony eddies, 
in which a straw would float for days and nights, till a 
flood came, borne round and round in a funnel-hearted 
whirlpool. The brook was deep for its size, and had 
a good deal to say in a solemn tone for such a small 
stream. We lay on the side of the hillock, I say, and 
Turkey’s Jew’s-harp mingled its sounds with those of 










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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 109 


the brook. After a while he laid it aside, and we were 
both silent for a time. 

At length Turkey spoke : 

“ You’ve seen my mother, Ranald.” 

“Yes, Turkey.” 

“ She’s all I’ve got to look after.” 

“ I haven’t got any mother to look after, Turkey.” 

“No. You’ve a father to look after you. I must 
do it, you know. My father wasn’t over good to my 
mother. He used to get drunk sometimes, and then he 
was very rough with her. I must make it up to her as 
well as I can. She’s not well off, Ranald.” 

“ Isn’t she, Turkey.?” 

“ No. She works very hard at her spinning, and no 
one spins better than my mother. How could they .? 
But it’s very poor pay, you know, and she’ll be getting 
old by and by.” 

“ Not to-morrow, Turkey.” 

“ No, not to-morrow, nor the day after,” said Turkey, 
looking up with some surprise to see what I meant by 
the remark. 

He then discovered that my eyes had led my thoughts 
astray, and that what he had been saying about his 
mother had got no farther than into my ears. For on 
the opposite side of the stream, on the grass, like a 
shepherdess in an old picture, sat a young girl, about 
my own age, in the midst of a crowded colony of 
daisies and white clover, knitting so that her needles 
went as fast as Kirsty’s, and were nearly as invisible as 
die thing with the hooked teeth in it that looked so 
dangerous and ran itself out of sight upon Turkey s 
mother’s spinning-wheel. A little way from her was a 
fine cow feeding, with a long iron chain dragging aftei 
10 


no RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

her. The girl was too far off for me to see her face 
very distinctly ; but something in her shape, her pos- 
ture and the hang of her head, I do not know what, 
had attracted me. 

“ Oh, there’s Elsie Duff,” said Turkey, himself for- 
getting his mother in the sight, “with her granny’s 
cow ! I didn’t know that she was coming here to 
day.” 

“ How is it,” I asked, “ that she is feeding her on Oid 
James Joss’s land?” 

“ Oh, they’re very good to Elsie, you see. Nobody 
cares much about her grandmother ; but Elsie’s not her 
grandmother, and although the cow belongs to the old 
woman, yet for Elsie’s sake this one here and that one 
there gives her a bite for it^that’s a day’s feed gen- 
erally. If you look at the cow, you’ll see she’s not 
like one that feeds by the roadsides. She’s as plump 
as needful, and has a good udderful of milk besides.” 

“ I’ll run down and tell her she may bring the cow 
into this field to-morrow,” I said, rising. 

“ I would if it were mine^^ said Turkey, in a marked 
tone, which I understood. 

“Oh, I see, Turkey,” I said. “You mean I ought 
to ask my father.” 

“ Yes, to be sure, I do mean that,” answered Turke}^ 

“ Then it s as good as done,” I returned. “ I will 
ask him to-night.” 

“ She s a good girl, Elsie,” was all Turkey’s reply. 

How it happened I cannot now remember, but I 
know that, after all, I did not ask my father, and 
Granny Gregson’s cow had no bite either off the glebe 
or the farm. And Turkey’s reflections concerning the 
mother he had to take care of having been interrupted, 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. m 


the end to which they were moving remained for the 
present unuttered. 

I soon grew quite strong again, and had neither plea 
nor desire for exemption from school labors. My 
father also had begun to take me in hand as well as 
my brother Tom ; and what with arithmetic and Latin 
together, not to mention geography and history, I had 
quite enough to do, and quite as much, also, as was 
good for me. 



CHAPTER XV. 

A NEW COMPANION. 


URING this summer I 
made the acquaintance 
" at school of a boy 
called Peter Mason. 
Peter was a clever 
boy, from whose mer- 
ry eye a sparkle was 
I always ready to break. 
He seldom knew his 
lesson well, but when 
kept in for failing in 
it, had always learned 
it before any of the 
rest had got more 
than half through. 
Amongst those of his 
own standing he was 
the acknowledged 
leader in the play- 
ground, and was be- 
sides often invited to take a share in the amusements 
of the older boys, by whom he was petted because of 
his cleverness and obliging disposition. Beyond school 
hours he spent his time in all manner of pranks. In 
the hot summer weather he would bathe twenty times 
a day, and was as much at home in the water as any 
112 





RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 113 


dabchick. And that was how I came to be more with 
him than was good for me. 

There was a small river not far from my father's 
house, which at a certain point was dammed back by a 
weir of large stones to turn part of it aside into a mill- 
race. The mill stood a little way down, under a steep 
bank. It was almost surrounded with trees, willows 
by the water’s edge, and birches and larches up the 
bank. Above the dam was a fine spot for bathing, for 
you could get any depth you liked— from two feet to 
five or six — and here it was that most of the boys of the 
village bathed and I with them. I cannot recall the 
memory of those summer days without a gush of de- 
light gurgling over my heart just as the water used to 
gurgle over the stones of the dam. It was a quiet 
place, particularly on the side to which my father s 
farm went down, where it was sheltered by the same 
little wood which further on surrounded the mill. The 
field which bordered the river was kept in natural 
grass, thick and short and fine, for here on the bank it 
grew well, although such grass was not at all common 
in that part of the country : upon other parts of the same 
farm the grass was sown every year along with the 
corn. Oh the summer days, with the hot sun drawing 
the odors from the feathery larches and the white- 
stemmed birches, when, getting out of the water, I 
would lie in the warm, soft grass, where now and then 
the tenderest little breeze would creep over my skin, 
until, the sun baking me more than was pleasant, I 
would rouse myself with an effort, and running down 
to the fringe of rushes that bordered the full-brimmed 
river, plunge again headlong into the quiet brown 
water and dabble and swim till I was once more weary ! 
10 * 


II4 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


For innocent animal delights I know of nothing to 
match those days — so warm, yet so pure-aired — so clean, 
so glad. I often think how God must love his little 
children to have invented for them such delights ! For 
of course, if he did not love the children and delight in 
their pleasure he would not have invented the two and 
brought them together. Yes, my child, I know what 
you would say : “ How many there are who have no 
such pleasures !” I grant it sorrowfully, but you must 
remember that God has not done with them yet ; and 
besides, that there are more pleasures in the world than 
you or I know anything about. And if we had it all 
pleasure, I know I should not care so much about what 
is better, and I would rather be made good than have 
any other pleasure in the world, and so would you, 
though perhaps you do not know it yet. 

One day a good many of us were at the water to- 
gether. I was somebody amongst them in my own 
estimation because I bathed off my father’s ground, 
while they were all on a piece of bank on the other 
side which was regarded as common )to the village. 
Suddenly upon the latter spot, when they were all 
undressed, and some already in the water, appeared a 
man who had lately rented the property of which that 
was part, accompanied' by a dog with a flesh-colored 
nose and a villainous look — a mongrel in which the 
bull predominated. He ordered every one ofl' his 
premises. Invaded with terror, all except a big boy 
who trusted that the dog would be more frightened at 
his naked figure than he was at the dog plunged into 
the liver and swam or waded from the inhospitable 
shore. Once in the embrace of the stream some of 
them thoughtlessly turned and mocked the enemy, for- 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. I15 

getting how much they were still in his power. Indig- 
nant at the tyrant, I stood up in the “limpid wave” 
and assured the aquatic company of a welcome to the 
opposite bank. So far all was very well. But their 
clothes! They, alas! were upon the bank they had 
left. 

The spirit of a host was upon me, for now I regarded 
them all as my guests and felt it my duty to provide for 
them as such. 

“You come ashore when you like,” I said. “I will 
see what can be done about your clothes.” 

I knew that just below the dam lay a little boat built 
by the miller’s sons. It was clumsy enough, but in 
my eyes a marvel of engineering art. On the opposite 
side stood the big boy braving the low-bred cur, which 
barked and growled at him with its ugly head stretched 
out like a serpent’s ; while his owner, who was probably 
not so unkind as we thought him, stood enjoying the 
fun of it all. Reckoning upon the big boy’s assistance, 
I scrambled out of the water and sped, like Achilles of 
the swift foot, for the boat. I jumped in and seized the 
oars, intending to row across and get the big boy to 
throw the clothes of the party into the boat. But I had 
never handled an oar in my life, and in the middle pas- 
gj^ge — how it happened I cannot tell — I found myself 
floundering in the water. 

Now, although you might expect that, the wa^er 
being dammed back just here, it would be shallow be- 
low the. dam, it was just the opposite. Had the bottom 
been hard it would have been shallow ; but as the bot- 
tom was soft and muddy, the rush of the water over 
the dam in the winter floods had here made a great 
hollow. There was besides another weir a very little 


Il6 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


way below which again dammed the water back ; so 
that the depth was greater here than in almost any 
other part within the ken of the village boys. Indeed, 
there were horrors afloat concerning its depth. I was 
but a poor swimmer, for swimming is a natural gift 
and is not equally distributed to all. I might have 
done better, however, but for those stories of the awful 
gulf beneath me. I was struggling and floundering, 
half blind and quite deaf, with a sense of the water 
constantly getting up and stopping me, whatever I 
wanted to do, when I felt myself laid hold of by the 
leg, dragged under water, and in a moment after landed 
safe on the bank, i^lmost at the same moment I heard 
a plunge, and getting up, -staggering and bewildered, 
saw, as through the haze of a dream, a boy swimming 
after the boat, which had gone down with the slow 
current. I saw him overtake it, scramble into it in 
mid stream and handle the oars as to the manner born. 
When he had brought it back to the spot where I 
>tood, I knew that Peter Mason was my deliverer. 
Quite recovered by this time from my slight attack of 
Irowning, I got again into the boat, and leaving the 
.>ars to Peter, was rowed across and landed. There 
was no farther difiiculty. The man, alarmed, I sup- 
pose, at the danger I had run, recalled his dog ; we 
bundled in the clothes ; Peter rowed them across ; 
Rory, the big boy, took the water after the boat, and I 
plunged in again above the dam. For the whole of 
that summer and part of the following winter Peter 
was my hero, to the forgetting even of my friend 
Turkey. I took every opportunity of joining him in 
his games, partly from gratitude, partly from admira- 
tion, but more than either from the simple human at- 


RANALD BANNBRMAN’S BOYHOOD. 1 17 


traction of the boy. It was some time before he led me 
into any real mischief, but it came at last. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

I GO DOWN HILL. 

I T came in the following winter. 

My father had now begun to teach me as well as 
Tom, but I confess I did not then value the privilege. 
I had got much too fond of the society of Peter Mason, 
and all the time I could command I spent with him. 
Always full of questionable frolic, the spirit of mischief 
gathered in him as the dark nights drew on. The sun 
and the wind and the green fields and the flowing 
waters of summer kept him within bounds; but when 
the ice and the snow came, when the sky was gray 
with one cloud, when the wind was full of needle- 
points of frost and the ground was hard as a stone, 
when the evenings were dark and the sun at noon shone 
low down and far away in the south, — then the demon 
of mischief awoke in the bosom of Peter Mason, and 
this winter, I am ashamed to say, drew me also into 
the net. 

Nothing very bad was the result before the incident 
I am about to relate. There must have been, however, 
a gradual declension toward it, although the pain which 
followed upon this has almost obliterated the recollec- 
tion of preceding follies. Nobody does anything bad 
all at once. Wickedness needs an apprenticeship as 
well as more difficult trades. 

It was in January, not long after the shortest day, 
the sun setting about half past three o’clock. At three 


Ii8 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 


school was over, and just as we were coming out, 
Peter whispered to me, with one of his merriest twinkles 
in his eyes : 

“ Come across after dark, Ranald, and we’ll have 
some fun.” 

I promised, and we arranged when and where to 
me^t. It was Friday, and I had no Latin to prepare 
for Saturday, therefore my father did not want me. I 
remember feeling very jolly as I went home to dinner, 
and made the sun set ten times at least by running up 
and down the earthen wall which parted the fields 
from the road j for as often as I ran up I saw him 
again over the shoulder of the hill behind which he 
was going down. When I had had my dinner I was 
so impatient to join Peter Mason that I could not rest, 
and fiom very idleness began to tease wee Davie. A 
great deal of that nasty teasing so common among 
boys comes of idleness. Poor Davie began to cry at 
last, and I, getting more and more wicked, went on 
teasing him, until at length he burst into a .howl of 
wrath and misery, whereupon the Kelpie, who had 
some tenderness for him, burst into the room and boxed 
my ears soundly. I was in a fury of rage and revenge, 
and had I been near anything I could have caught up, 
something serious would have been the result. In 
spite of my resistance, she pushed me out of the room 
and locked the door. I would have complained to my 
father, but I was perfectly aware that, although she had 
no right to strike me, I had deserved chastisement for 
my behavior to my brother. I was still boiling with 
anger when I set off for the village to join Mason. I 
mention all this to show that I was in a bad state of 
mind, and thus prepared for the wickedness which fol- 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 119 

lowed. I repeat, a boy never disgraces himself all at 
once. He does not tumble from the top to the bottom 
of the cellar stair. He goes down the steps himself 
till he comes to the broken one, and then he goes to 
the bottom with a rush. It will also serve to show that 
the enmity between Mrs. Mitchell and me had in no 
wise abated, and that, however excusable she might be 
in the case just mentioned, she remained an evil element 
in the household. 

When I reached the village I found very few people 
about. The night was very cold, for there was a black 
frost. There had been a thaw the day before which 
had carried away the most of the snow, but in the 
corners lay remnants of dirty heaps which had been 
swept up there. I was waiting near one of these, 
which happened to be at the spot where Peter had 
arranged to meet me, when from a little shop near a 
girl came out and walked quickly down the street. I 
yielded to the temptation arising in a mind which had 
grown a darkness witli slimy things crawling in it. I 
kicked a hole in the frozen crust of the heap, scraped 
out a handful of dirty snow, kneaded it into a snow- 
ball and sent it after the girl. It struck her on the 
back of the head. She gave a cry and ran away with 
her hand to her forehead. Brute that I was, I actually 
laughed. I think I must have been nearer the devil 
then than I have been since. At least I hope so. For 
you see it was not with me as with worse-trained boys. 
I knew quite well that I was doing wrong, and refused 
to think about it. I felt bad inside. Peter might have 
done the same thing without being half as wicked as I 
was. He did not feel the wickedness of that kind of 
thing as I did. He would have laughed over it mer- 


120 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


rily. But the vile dregs of my wrath with the Kelpie 
were fermenting in my bosom, and the horrid pleasure 
I found in annoying an innocent girl because the wicked 
Kelpie had made me angry could never have been 
expressed in a merry laugh like Mason’s. The fact is, 
I was more displeased with myself than with anybody 
else, though I did not allow it, and would not take the 
tiouble to repent and do the right thing. If I had even 
said to wee Davie that I was sorry, I do not think I 
should have done the other wicked things that followed ; 
for this was not all by any means. 

In a little while Peter joined me. He laughed, of 
course, when I told him how the girl had run like a 
frightened hare, but that was poor fun in his eyes. 

“ Look here, Ranald,” he said, holding out something 
like a piece of wood. 

“ What is it, Peter?” I asked. 

“ It’s the stalk of a cabbage,” he answered. “ I’ve 
scooped out the inside and filled it with tow. We’ll 
set fire to one end and blow the smoke through the 
keyhole.” 

“Whose keyhole, Peter.?” 

“An old witch’s that I know of. She’ll be in such 
a rage ! It’ll be fun to hear her cursing and swearinfg. 
We’d serve the same to every house in the row, but 
that would be more than we could get off with. Come 
along. Here’s a rope to tie her door with first.” 

I followed him, not without inward misgivings, 
vhich I kept down as well as I could. I argued with 
nyself, am not doing it; I am only going with 
Peter: what business is that of anybody’s so long as I 
don’t touch the thing myself.?” Only a few minutes 
more and I was helping Peter to tie the rope to the 


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“ She’s rising. Now we’ll catch it, Ranald.” 

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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 123 


latch-handle of a poor little cottage, saying now to my- 
self, “ This doesn’t matter. This won’t do her any 
harm. This isn’t smoke. And after all, smoke won’t 
hurt the nasty old thing. It’ll only make her angry. 
It may do her cough good : I dare say she’s got a 
cough.” I knew all I was saying was false, and yet I 
acted on it. Was not that as wicked as wickedness 
could be } One moment more and Peter was blowing 
through the hollow cabbage-stalk in at the keyhole 
with all his might. Catching a breath of the stifling 
smoke himself, however, he began to cough violently, 
and passed the wicked instrument to me. I put my 
mouth to it and blew with all my might. I believe 
now that there was some far more objectionable stuff* 
mingled with the tow. In a few moments we heard 
the old woman begin to cough. Peter, who was peep- 
ing in at the window, whispered : 

“ She’s rising. Now we’ll catch it, Ranald !” 

Coughing as she came, I heard her with shuffling 
steps approach the door, thinking to open it for air. 
When she failed in opening it, and found besides w'here 
the smoke was coming from, she broke into a torrent 
of fierce and vengeful reproaches, mingled with epithets 
by no means flattering. She did not curse and swear 
as Peter had led me to expect, although her language 
was certainly far enough from refined ; but therein I, 
being in a great measure the guilty cause, was more to 
blame than she. I laughed because I would not be 
unworthy of my companion, who was genuinely 
amused ; but I was, in reality, shocked at the tempest 
I had raised. I stopped blowing, aghast at what I had 
done ; but Peter caught the tube from my hand and re- 
commenced the assault with fresh vigor, whispering 


124 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


through the keyhole every now and then between the 
blasts, provoking, irritating, even insulting remarks on 
the old woman’s personal appearance and supposed 
ways of living. This threw her into paroxysms of rage 
and of coughing, both increasing in violence ; and the 
war of words grew, she tugging at the door as she 
screamed, he answering merrily, and with pretended 
sympathy for her sufferings, until I lost all remaining 
delicacy in the humor of the wicked game and laughed 
loud and heartily. 

Of a sudden the scolding and coughing ceased. A 
strange sound, and again silence followed. Then came 
a shrill, suppressed scream ; and we heard the voice of 
a girl, crying : 

“Grannie! grannie! What’s the matter with you? 
Can’t you speak to me, grannie ? They’ve smothered 
my grannie !” 

Sobs and moans were all we heard now. Peter had 
taken fright at last, and was busy undoing the rope. 
Suddenly he flung the door wide and fled, leaving me 
exposed to the full gaze of the girl. To my horror it 
was Elsie Duff! She was just approaching the door, 
her eyes streaming with tears and her sweet face white 
with agony. I stood unable to move or speak. She 
turned away without a word, and began again to busy 
herself with the old woman, who lay on the ground not 
two yards from the door. I heard a heavy step ap- 
proaching. Guilt awoke fear and restored my powers 
of motion. I fled at full speed, not to find Mason, but 
to leave everything behind me. 

When I reached the manse, it stood alone in the 
starry blue night. Somehow I could not help thinking 
of the time when I came home after waking up in the 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 125 

barn. That, loo, was a time of misery but oh how 
different from this! Then I liad only been cruelly 
treated myself; now I had actually committed ciuelt>. 
Then I sought my father’s bosom as the one refuge; 
now I dreaded the very sight of my father, for I could 
not look him in the face. He was my father, but I was 
not his son. A hurried glance at my late life revealed 
that I had been behaving very badly, growing worse 
and worse. I became more and more miserable as I 
stood, but what to do I could not tell. The cold at 
length drove me into the house. I generally sat with 
my father in his study of a winter night, but now I 
dared not go near it. I crept to the nursery, where I 
found a bright fire burning, and Allister reading by the 
blaze, while Davie lay in bed at the other side of the 
room. I sat down and warmed myself, but the warmth 
could not reach the lump of ice at my heart. I sat and 
stared at the fire. Allister was too much occupied with 
his book to take any heed of me. All at once I felt a 
pair of little arms about my neck, and Davie was trying 
to climb upon my knees. Instead of being comfoited, 
however, I spoke very crossly, and sent him back to 
his bed whimpering. You see I was only miserable ; 
I was not repentant. I was eating the husks with the 
swine, and did not relish them ; but I had not said, “ I 
will arise and go to my father.’ 

How I got through the rest of that evening I hardly 
know. I tried to read, but could not. I was rather 
fond of arithmetic ; so I got my slate and tried to work 
a sum, but in a few moments I was sick of it. At 
family prayers I never lifted my head to look at my 
father, and when they were over, and I had said good- 
night to him, I felt that I was sneaking out of the 


126 RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

room. But I had some small sense of protection i-.nd 
safety when once in bed beside little Davie, who was 
sound asleep, and looked as innocent as little Samuel 
when the voice of God was going to call him. I put 
my arm round him, hugged him close to me, and began 
to cry, and the crying brought me sleep. 

It was a very long time now since I had dreamt my 
old childish dream, but this night it returned. The old 
sunny-faced sun looked down upon me very solemiily. 
There was no smile on his big mouth, no twinkle about 
the corners of his little eyes. He looked at Mrs. Moon 
as much as to say, “ What is to be done } The boy has 
been going the wrong way: must we disown him.?” 
The moon neither shook her head nor moved her lips, 
but turned as on a pivot, and stood with her back to 
her husband, looking very miserable. Not one of the 
star-children moved from its place. They shone sickly 
and small. In a little while they faded out ; then the 
moon paled and paled until she too vanished without 
ever turning her face to her husband ; and last the sun 
himself began to change, only instead of paling he 
drew in all his beams, and shrunk smaller and smaller 
until no bigger than a candle-flame. Then I found 
that I was staring at a candle on the table ; and that 
Tom was kneeling by the side of the other bed saying 
his prayers. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

THE TROUBLE GROWS. 

W HEN I woke in the morning, I tried to persuade 
myself that I had made a great deal too much 
of the whole business ; that if not a dignified thing to 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 127 

do, it was at worst but a boy’s trick ; only I would have 
no more to say to Peter Mason, who had betrayed me 
at the last moment without even the temptation of any 
benefit to himself. I went to school as usual. It was 
the day for the Shorter Catechism. None failed but 
Peter and me, and we two were kept in alone, and 
left in the schoolroom together. I seated myself as far 
from him as I could. In half an hour he had learned 
his task, while I had not mastered the half of mine. 
Thereupon he proceeded, regardless of my entreaties, 
to prevent me learning it. I begged, and prayed, and 
appealed to his pity, but he would pull the book away 
from me, gabble bits of ballads in my ear as I was 
struggling with Effectual Calling.^ tip up the form on 
which I was seated, and, in short, annoy me in twenty 
different ways. At last I began to cry, for Mason was 
a bigger and stronger boy than I, and I could not help 
myself against him. Lifting my head after the first 
vexation was over, I thought I saw a shadow pass 
from the window. Although I could not positively sa5 
I saw it, I had a conviction it was Turkey, and my 
heart began to turn again toward him. Emboldened 
by the fancied proximity, I attempted my lesson once 
more, but that moment Peter was down upon me like 
a spider. At last, however, growing suddenly weary 
of the sport, he desisted, and said : 

“ Ran, you can stay if you like. I’ve learned my 
catechism, and I don’t see why I should wait his 
time.” 

As he spoke he drew a picklock from his pocket — 
his father was an ironmonger — deliberately opened the 
schoolroom door, slipped out, and locked it behind him. 
Then he came to one of the windows, and began mak- 


128 RANALD BANNERMAN S BOYHOOD, 


ing faces at me. But vengeance was nigher than he 
knew. A deeper shadow darkened my page, and when 
I looked up, there was Turkey towering over Mason, 
with his hand on his collar and his whip lifted. The 
whip did not look formidable. Mason received the 
threat as a joke, and laughed in Turkey’s face. Per- 
ceiving, however, that Turkey looked dangerous, with 
a sudden wriggle, at which he was an adept, he broke 
free, and, trusting to his tried speed of foot, turned 
his head and made a grimace as he took to his heels. 
Before, however, he could widen the space between 
them sufficiently, Turkey’s whip came down upon him. 
With a howl of pain Peter doubled himself up, and 
Turkey fell upon him, and, heedless of his yells and 
cries, pommeled him severely. Although they were 
now at some distance, too great for the distinguishing 
of words, I could hear that Turkey mingled admoni- 
tion with punishment. A little longer, and Peter crept 
past the window, a miserable mass of collapsed and 
unstrung impudence, his face bleared with crying and 
his knuckles dug into his eyes. And this was the boy 
I had chosen for my leader ! He had been false to me, 
I said to myself, and the noble Turkey, seeing his be- 
havior through the window, had watched to give him 
his deserts. My heart was full of gratitude. 

Once more Turkey drew near the window. What 
were my dismay and indignation to hear him utter the 
following words : 

“ If you weren’t your father’s son, Ranald, and my 
own old friend, I would serve you just the same as I 
served him.” 

Wrath and pride arose in me at the idea of Turkey, 
who used to call himself my horse, behaving to me 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 129 


after this fashion and, my evil ways having half made 
a sneak of me, I cried out : 

“ I’ll tell my father, Turkey.” 

“ I only wish you would, and then I should be no 
tell-tale if he asked me why, and I told him all about 
it. You young blackguard! You’re no gentleman! 
To sneak about the streets and hit girls with snow- 
balls ! I scorn you !” 

“You must have been watching, then, Turkey, and 
you had no business to do that,” I said, plunging at 
any defence. 

“ I was not watching you. But if I had been, it 
would have been just as right as watching Hawkie. 
You ill-behaved creature ! You’re a true minister’s 
son. 

“ It’s a mean thing to do, Turkey,” I persisted, seek- 
ing to stir up my own anger and blow up my self- 
approval. 

“ I tell you I did not do it. I met Elsie Duff crying 
in the street because you had hit her with a dirty snow- 
ball. And then to go and smoke her and her poor 
grannie till the old woman fell down in a faint or a fit, 
I don’t know which ! You deserve a good pommel- 
ing yourself, I can tell you, Ranald. I’m ashamed of 
you.” 

He turned to go away. 

“ Turkey, Turkey !” I cried, “ isn’t the old woman 
better?” 

“ I don’t know. I’m going to see,” he answered. 

“ Come back and tell me, Turkey,” I shouted as he 
disappeared f’om the field of my vision. 

“ Indeed I won’t. I don’t choose to keep company 
with such as you. But if ever I hear of you touching 

F* 


130 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

them again, you shall have more of me than you’ll like, 
and you may tell your father so w'hen you please.” 

I had indeed sunk low when Turkey, who had been 
such a friend, would have nothing to say to me more. 
In a few minutes the master returned, and finding me 
crying, was touched with compassion. He sent me 
home at once, which was well for me, as I could not 
have repeated a single question. He thought Peter had 
crept through one of the panes that opened for ventila- 
tion, and did not interrogate me about his disappear- 
ance. 

The whole of the rest of that day was miserable 
enough. I even hazarded one attempt at making 
friends with Mrs. Mitchell, but she repelled me so 
rudely that I did not try again. I could not bear the 
company of either Allister or Davie. I would have 
gone and told Kirsty, but I said to myself that Turkey 
must have already prejudiced her against me. I went 
to bed the moment prayers were over and slept a 
troubled sleep. I dreamed that Turkey had gone and 
told my father, and that he had turned me out of the 
house. 


CHAPTER XVIIl. 

LIGHT OUT OF DARKNESS. 

I WOKE early on the Sunday morning, and a most 
dreary morning it was. I could not lie in bed, 
and although no one was up yet, rose and dressed my- 
self. The house was as waste as a sepulchre. I 
opened the front door and went out. The world itself 
was no better. The day had hardly begun to dawn. 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 13 1 

The dark, dead frost held it in chains of iron. The 
sky was dull and leaden, and cindery flakes of snow 
were thinly falling. Everywhere life looked utterly 
dreary and hopeless. What was there worth living 
for ? I went out on the road, and the ice in the ruts 
crackled under my feet like the bones of dead things. 
I wandered away from the house, and the keen wind 
cut me to the bone, for I had not put on plaid or cloak. 
I turned into a field and stumbled along over its uneven 
surface, swollen into hard, frozen lumps, so that it was 
like walking upon stones. The summer was gone and 
the winter was here, and my heart was colder and 
more miserable than any winter in the world. I found 
myself at length at the hillock where Turkey and I had 
lain on that lovely afternoon the year before. The 
stream below was dumb with frost. The wind blew 
wearily but sharply across the bare field. There was 
no Elsie Duff, with head drooping over her knitting, 
seated in the summer grass on the other side of a sing- 
ing brook. Her head was aching on her pillow be- 
cause I had struck her with that vile lump, and instead 
of the odor of white clover she was breathing the dregs 
of the hateful smoke with which I had filled the cottage. 
I sat down, cold as it was, on the frozen hillock, and 
buried my face in my hands. Then my dream returned 
upon me. This was how I sat in my dream when my 
father had turned me out of doors. Oh how dreadful 
it would be ! I should just have to lie down and die. 

I could not sit long for the cold. Mechanically I 
rose and paced about. But I grew so wretched in 
body that it made me forget for a while the trouble of 
my mind, and I wandered home again. The house 
was just stirring. I crept to the nursery, undressed, 


132 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


and lay down beside little Davie, who cried out in his 
sleep when my cold feet touched him. But I did not 
sleep again, although I lay till all the rest had gone to 
the parlor. I found them seated round a blazing fire 
waiting for my father. He came in soon after, and we 
had our breakfast, and Davie gave his crumbs as usual 
to the robins and sparrows which came hopping on the 
window-sill. I fancied my father’s eyes were often 
turned in my direction, but 1 could not lift mine to 
make sure. I had never before known what misery 
was. 

Only Tom and I went to church that day, it was so 
cold. My father preached from the text, “ Be sure 
your sin shall find you out.” I thought with myself 
that he had found out my sin and was preparing to 
punish me for it, and I was filled with terror as well as 
dismay. I could scarcely keep my seat, so wretched 
was I. But when, after many instances in which pun- 
ishment had come upon evil-doers when they least 
expected it, and in spite of every precaution to fortify 
themselves against it, he proceeded to say that a man’s 
sin might find him out long before the punishment of 
it overtook him, and drew a picture of the misery of 
the wicked man who fled when none pursued him and 
trembled at the rustling of a leaf ; then I was certain 
that he knew what I had done, or had seen through my 
face into my conscience. When at last we went home, 
I kept waiting the whole of the day for the storm to 
break, expecting every moment to be called to his 
study. I did not enjoy a mouthful of my food, for I 
felt his eyes upon me, and they toitured me. I was 
like a shy creature of the woods whose hole has been 
stopped up : I had no place of refuge — nc where to hide 



“He began and read through, without a word of remark, th< 
[’arable of the Prodigal Son.” i3.S- 


12 


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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 135 

iHy head ; and I felt so naked ! My very soul was 
naked. After tea I slunk away to the nursery, and sat 
staring into the fire. Mrs. Mitchell came in several 
times and scolded me for sitting there, instead of with 
Tom and the rest in the parlor, but I was too miserable 
even to answer her. At length she brought Davie and 
put him to bed, and a few minutes after I heard my 
father coming down the stair with Allister, who was 
chatting away to him. I wondered how he could. 
My father came in with the big Bible under his arm, 
as was his custom on Sunday nights, drew a chair to 
the table, rang for candles, and with Allister by his 
side and me seated opposite to him, began to find a 
place from which to read to us. To my yet stronger 
conviction, he began and read through without a word 
of remark the parable of the Prodigal Son. When he 
came to the father’s delight at having him back, the 
robe and the shoes and the ring, I could not repress 
my tears. “ If I could only go back,” I thought, “and 
set it all right ! but then I’ve never gone away.” It 
was a foolish thought, instantly followed by a longing 
impulse to tell my father all about it. How could it be 
that I had not thought of this before.? I had been 
waiting all this time for my sin to find me out; why 
should I not frustrate my sin and find my father first.? 

As soon as he had done reading, and before he had 
opened his mouth to make any remark, I crept round 
the table to his side and whispered in his ear: 

“ Papa, I want to speak to you.” 

“ Very well, Ranald,” he said, more solemnly, I 
thought, than usual ; “ come up to the study.” 

He rose and led the way, and I followed. A whimper 
of disappointment came from Davie’s bed. My father 


13 ^ RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD, 

went and kissed him, and said he would soon be back, 
whereupon Davie nestled down satisfied. 

When we reached the study, he closed the door, sat 
down by the fire and drew me toward him. 

I burst out crying and could not speak for sobs. He 
encouraged me most kindly. 

“Have you been doing any thing wrong, my boy .J*’* 
he said. 

“ Yes, papa, very wrong,” I sobbed. “ Fm disgusted 
with myself.” 

“ I am glad to hear it, my dear,” he returned. 
“ There is some hope of you, then.” 

“ Oh, I don’t know that !” I rejoined. “ Even 
Turkey despises me.” 

“ That’s very serious,” said my father. “ He’s a fine 
fellow, Turkey. I should not like him to despise me. 
But tell me all about it.” 

It was with great difficulty I could begin, but with 
the help of questioning me, my father at length under- 
stood the whole matter. He paused for a while 
plunged in thought ; then rose, saying : 

“ It s a serious afl'air, my dear boy ; but now you 
have told me I shall be able to help you.” 

“But you knew about it before, didn’t you, papa.? 
Surely you did !” ' 

“ Not a word of it, Ranald. You fancied so because 
your sin had found you out. I must go and see how 
the poor woman is. I don’t want to reproach you at 
all, now you are sorry, but I should like you just to 
think that you have been helping to make that poor old 
woman wicked. She is naturally of a sour disposition, 
and you have made it sourer still, and no doubt made 
her hate everybody more than she was already inclined 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 137 


to do. You have been working against God in this 
parish.” 

I burst into fresh tears. It was too dreadful. 

“ What am I to do I cried. 

“ Of course you must beg Mrs. Gregson’s pardon, 
and tell her that you are both sorry and ashamed.” 

“ Yes, yes, papa. Do let me go with you.” 

“ It’s too late to find her up. I’m afraid, but we can 
just go and see. We’ve done a wrong, a very grievous 
wrong, my boy, and I cannot rest till I at least know 
the consequences of it.” 

He put on his long great-coat and muffler in haste, 
and having seen that I too was properly wrapped up, 
he opened the door and stepped out. But remember- 
ing the promise he had made to Davie, he turned and 
went down to the nursery to speak to him again, while 
I awaited him on the doorsteps. It would have been 
quite dark but for the stars, and there was no snow to 
give back any of their shine. The earth swallowed all 
their rays and was no brighter for it. But oh what a 
change to me from the frightful morning ! When my 
father returned I put my hand in his almost as fearlessly 
as Allister or wee Davie might have done, and away 
we walked together. 

“ Papa,” I said, “ why did you say we have done a 
wrong.? You did not do it.” 

“ My dear boy, persons who are so near each othei 
as we are must not only bear the consequences to- 
gether of any wnong done by one of them, but must, in 
a sense, bear each other’s iniquities even. If I sin, you 
must suffer ; if you sin, you being my own boy, I must 
sutler. But this is not all : it lies upon both of us to do 
what we can to get rid of the wrong done ; and thus 
12 * 


138 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


we have to bear each other’s sin. I am accountable to 
make amends as far as I can, and also to do what I can to 
get you to be sorry and make amends as far as you can.” 

“But, papa, isn’t that hard?” I asked. 

“ Do you think I should like to leave you to get out 
of your sin as you best could, or sink deeper and deeper 
into it? Should I grudge anything to take the weight 
of the sin or the wrong to others off you? Do you 
think I should want not to be troubled about it ? Or if 
I were to do anything wrong, would you think it very 
hard that you had to help me to be good and set things 
right? Even if people looked down upon you because 
of me, would you say it was hard? Would you not 
rather say, ‘ I’m glad to bear anything for my father : 
I’ll share with him’.?^” 

“ Yes indeed, papa. I would rather share with you 
than not, whatever it was.” 

“ Then you see, my boy, how kind God is in tying 
us up in one bundle that way. It is a grand and beau- 
tiful thing that the fathers should suffer for the children 
and the children for the fathers. Come along. We 
must step out, or I fear we shall not be able to make 
our apology to-night. When we’ve got over this, 
Eanald, we must be a good deal more careful what 
company we keep.” 

“Oh, papa,” I answered, “if Turkey would only 
forgive me !” 

“There’s no fear. Turkey is sure to forgive you 
when you’ve done what you can to make amends. He’s 
a fine fellow, Turkey. I have a high opinion of 
Turkey, as you call him.” 

“ If he would, papa, I should not wish for any othei 
company than his.” 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 13 ^^ 

“ A boy wants various kinds of companions, Ranald ; 
but I fear you have been neglecting Turkey. You owe 
him much.” 

“ Yes, indeed I do, papa,” I answered ; “ and I have 
been neglecting him. If I had kept with Turkey, I 
should never have got into such a dreadful scrape as 


this.” 


“ That is too light a word to use for it, my boy. 
Don’t call a wickedness a scrape, for a wickedness it 
certainly was, though I am only too willing to believe 
you had no adequate idea at the time how wicked it 
was.” 

“ I won’t again, papa. But I am so relieved al- 
ready.” 

“ Perhaps poor old Mrs. Gregson is not relieved, 
though. You ought not to forget her.” 

Thus talking, we hurried on until we arrived at the 
cottage. A dim light was visible through the window. 
My father knocked, and Elsie Duff opened the door. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

FORGIVENESS. 

HEN we entered, there 
sat the old woman on the 
farther side of the hearth, 
rocking herself to and fro. 
I hardly dared look up. 
Elsie’s face was composed 
and sweet. She gave me 
a shy, tremulous smile 
which went to my heart 
and humbled me dread- 
fully. My father took the 
stool on which Elsie had 
been sitting. When he 
had lowered himself upon 
it his face was nearly on 
a level with that of the 
old woman, who took no 
notice of him, but kept rocking herself to and fro and 
moaning. He laid his liand on hers, which, old and 
withered and not very clean, lay on her knee. 

“ How do you find yourself to-night, Mrs. Gregson ?” 
he asked 

“ Fm an ill-used woman,” she replied, with a groan, 
behaving as if it was my father who had maltreated 
her, and whose duty it was to make an apology for it. 
140 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. I4I 


“I am aware of what you mean, Mrs. Gregson. 
That is what brought me to inquire after you. I hope 
you are not seriously the worse for it.” 

“ I’m an ill-used woman,” she repeated. “ Every 
man’s hand’s against me.” 

“ Well, I hardly think it’s as bad as that,” said my 
father in a cheerful tone. My hand’s not against 
you now.” 

“ If you bring up your sons, Mr. Bannerman, to 
mock at the poor, and find their amusement in driving 
the aged and infirm to death’s door, you can’t say your 
hand’s not against a poor lone woman like me.” 

“ But I don’t bring up my sons to do so. If I did, I 
shouldn’t be here now. I am willing to bear my part 
of the blame, Mrs. Gregson, but to say I bring my sons 
up to that kind of wickedness is to lay on me more than 
my share, a good deal. Come here, Ranald.” 

I obeyed with bowed head and shame-stricken heart, 
for I saw what Wrong I had done my father, and that, 
although few would be so unjust to him as this old 
woman, many would yet blame the best man in the 
world for the wrongs of his children. When I stood 
by my father’s side, the old woman just lifted her head 
once to cast on me a scowling look, and then went on 
again rocking herself. 

“ Now, my boy,” said my father, “ tell Mrs. Gregson 
why you have come here to-night.” 

I had to use a dreadful effort to make myself speak. 
It was like resisting a dumb spirit and forcing the 
words from my lips. But I did not hesitate a moment. 
In fact, I dared not hesitate, for I felt that hesitation 
would be defeat. 

“ I came, papa — ” I began. 


1^2 RANALD BANNER MAN’S BOYHOOD. 


“ No, no, my man,” said my father ; “ you must 
speak to Mrs. Gregson, not to me.” 

Thereupon I had to make a fresh effort. When at 
this day I see a child who will not say the words re- 
quired of him, I feel again just as I felt then, and think 
how difficult it is for him to do what he is told ; but 
oh how I wish he would do it, that he might be a con- 
queror ! for I know that if he will not make the effort 
it will grow more and more difficult for him to make 
any effort. I cannot be too thankful that I was able to 
overcome now. 

I came, Mrs. Gregson,” I faltered, “ to tell you 
that I am very sorry I behaved so ill to you.” 

“ Yes, indeed,” she returned. “ How would you 
like any one to come and serve you so in your grand 
house .f* But a poor lone wddow woman like me is 
nothing to be thought of. Oh no ! not at all !” 

I am ashamed of myself,” I said, almost forcing 
my confession upon her, for it was evident she would 
not listen. 

“ So you ought to be all the days of your life. You 
deserve to be drummed out of the town for a minister’s 
son that you are ! Hoo !” 

“ I’ll never do it again, Mrs. Gregson.” 

“ You’d better not, or you shall hear of it if there’s a 
sheriff in the county. To insult honest people after 
that fashion !” 

I drew back, more than ever conscious of the wrong 
I had done in rousing such unforgiving fierceness in the 
heart of a woman. My father spoke now. 

“ Shall I tell you, Mrs. Gregson, what made the boy 
sorry, and made him willing to come and tell you all 
about it.?” 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 143 

“ Oh, I’ve got friends after all ! The young prod- 
igal !” 

“You are coming pretty near it, Mrs. Gregson,” 
said my father ; “ but you haven’t touched it quite. It 
W’as a friend of yours that spoke to my boy and made 
him very unhappy about what he had done, telling 
him over and over again what a shame it was and 
how wicked of him. Do you know what friend it 
was?” 

“ Perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t. I can guess.” 

“ I fear you don’t guess quite correctly\ It was the 
best friend you ever had or ever will have. It was 
God himself talking in my poor boy’s heart. He would 
not heed what he said all day, but in the evening we 
were reading how the prodigal son went back to his 
father, and how the father forgave him ; and he couldn’t 
stand it any longer, and came and told me all about it.” 

“ It wasn’t you he had to go to. It wasn’t you he 
smoked to death — was it now? It was easy enough to 
go to you.” 

“ Not so easy, perhaps. But he has come to you 
now.” 

“ Come when you made him !” 

“ I didn’t make him. He came gladly. He saw it 
was all he could do to make up for the wrong he had 
done.” 

“ A poor amends !” I heard her grumble ; but my 
father took no notice. 

“ And you know, Mrs. Gregson,” he went on, 
“ when the prodigal son did go back to his father, his 
father forgave him at once.” 

“ Easy enough ! He was his father, and fathers al- 
ways side with their sons.” 


144 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

I saw my father thinking for a moment. 

“Yes, that is true,” he said. “And what he does 
himself he always wants his sons and daughters to do. 
So he tells us that if we don’t forgive one another he 
wdll not forgive us. And as we all want to be forgiven, 
we had better mind what we’re told. If you don’t for- 
give this boy, who 1ms done you a great wrong, but is 
sorry for it, God will not forgive you, and that’s a 
serious affair.” 

“ He’s never begged my pardon yet,” said the old 
woman, whose dignity required the utter humiliation 
of the offender. 

“ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Gregson,” I said. “ I 
shall never be rude to you again.” 

“Very well,” she answered, a little mollified at last. 
“ Keep your promise, and we’ll say no more about it. 
It’s for your father’s sake, mind, that I forgive you.” 

I saw a smile trembling about my father’s lips, but 
he suppressed it, saying : 

“ Won’t you shake hands with him, Mrs. Gregson.?” 

She held out a poor, shriveled hand, which I took 
very gladly ; but it felt so strange in mine that I was 
frightened at it : it was like something half dead. But 
at the same moment, from behind me, another hand — 
a rough little hand, but warm and firm and all alive — 
slipped into my left hand. I knew it was Elsie Duff’s, 
and the thought of how I had behaved to her rushed in 
upon me with a cold misery of shame. I would have 
knelt at her feet, but I could not speak my sorrow be- 
fore witnesses. Therefore I kept hold of her hand and 
led her by it to the other end of the cottage, for there 
was a friendly gloom, the only light in the place com- 
mg from the glow — not flame — of a fire of peat and 



“I am his horse again, Elsie, and I’ll carry him home this veiy 
night.” H7- 

13 145 G 








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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 147 

bark. She came readily, whispering before I had time 
to open my mouth : 

“ I’m sorry grannie’s so hard to make it up.” 

“ I deserve it,” I said. “ Elsie, I’m a brute. I 
could knock my head on the wall. Please forgive 
me.” 

“ It’s not me,” she answered. “ You didn’t hurt me. 
I didn’t mind it.” 

“ Oh, Elsie ! I struck you with that horrid snow-ball.” 

“ It was only on the back of my neck. It didn’t 
hurt me much. It only frightened me.” 

“ I didn’t know it was you. If I had known, I am 
sure I shouldn’t have done it. But it was wicked and 
contemptible anyhow, to any girl.” 

I broke down again, half from shame, half from 
the happiness of having cast my sin from me by con- 
fessing it. Elsie held my hand now. 

“ Never mind ; never mind,” she said ; “ you won’t 
do it again.” 

“ I would rather be hanged,” I sobbed. 

That moment a pair of strong hands caught hold of 
mine, and the next I found myself being hoisted on 
somebody’s back by a succession of heaves and pitches, 
which did not cease until I was firmly seated. Then a 
voice said : 

“ I’m his horse again, Elsie, and I’ll carry him home 
this very night.” 

Elsie gave a pleased little laugh, and Turkey bore 
me to the fireside, where my father was talking away 
in a low tone to the old woman. I believe he had now 
turned the tables upon her, and was trying to convince 
her of her unkind and grumbling ways. But he did 
not let us hear a word of the reproof. 


148 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 

“Eh! Turkey, my lad, is that you? I didn’t 
know you were there,” he said. 

1 had never before heard my father address him as 
Turkey. 

“ What are you doing with that great boy upon your 
back?” he continued. 

“ I’m going to carry him home, sir.” 

“ Nonsense ! He can walk well enough.” 

Half ashamed, I began to struggle to get down, but 
Turkey held me tight. 

“ But you see, sir,” said Turkey, “ we’re friends now. 
He's done what he could, and / want to do what I 
can.” 

“Very well,” returned my father, rising; “come 
along, it’s time we were going.” 

When he bade her good-night, the old woman actu- 
ally rose and held out her hand to both of us. 

“ Good-night, Grannie,” said Turkey. “ Good-night, 
Elsie and away we went. 

Never conqueror on his triumphal entry was happier 
than I as through the starry night I rode home on 
Turkey’s back. The very stars seemed rejoicing over 
my head. When I think of it now the words always 
come with it, “ There is joy in the presence of the 
angels of God over one sinner that repenteth,” and I 
cannot but believe they rejoiced then, for if ever I re- 
pented in my life, I repented then. When at length I 
was down in bed beside Davie, it seemed as if there 
could be nobody in the world so blessed as I was ; I had 
been forgiven. When I woke in the morning I was, as 
it were, new-born into a new world. Before getting up 
I had a rare game with Davie, whose shrieks of laugh- 
ter at length brought Mrs. Mitchell with angry face ; 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 149 


but I found myself kindly disposed even toward her. 
The weather was much the same, but its dreariness had 
vanished. There was a glowing spot in my heart which 
drove out the cold and glorified the black frost that 
bound the earth. When I went out before breakfast, 
and saw the red face of the sun looking through the 
mist like a bright copper kettle, he seemed to know all 
about it and to be friends with me as he had never been 
before ; and I was quite as well satisfied as if the sun 
of my dream had given me a friendly nod of forgive- 
ness. 


CHAPTER XX. 


I HAVE A FALL AND A DREAM. 

LSIE DUFF’S father was a farm laborer, with a 



1 V large family. He was what is called a cottar in 
Scotland, which name implies that of the large farm 
upon. which he worked for yearly wages he had a little 
bit of land to cultivate for his own use. His wife’s 
mother was Grannie Gregson. She was so old that she 
needed some one to look after her, but she had a cottage 
of her own in the village, and would not go and live 
with her daughter, and, indeed, they were not anxious 
to have her, for she was not by any means a pleasant 
person. So there was no help for it : Elsie must go 
and be her companion. It was a great trial to her at 
first, for her home was a happy one, her mother being 
very unlike her grandmother ; and besides, she greatly 
preferred the open fields to the streets of the village. 
She did not grumble, however, for where is the good 
of grumbling where duty is plain, or even when a thing 


cannot be helped.? She found it very lonely though, 


150 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


especially when her grannie was in one of her gloomy 
moods. Then she would not answer a question, but 
leave the poor girl to do what she thought best, and 
complain of it afterward. This was partly the reason 
why her parents, toward the close of the spring, sent a 
little brother, who was too delicate to be of much use 
at home, to spend some months with his grannie, and 
go to school. The intention had been that Elsie herself 
should go to school, but what with the cow and her 
grandmother together she had not been able to begin. 
Of course grannie grumbled at the proposal, but, as 
Turkey, my informant on these points, explained, she 
was afraid lest, if she objected, they should take Elsie 
away and send a younger sister in her place. So little 
Jamie Duff came to the school. 

He was a poor little white-haired, red-eyed boy, who 
found himself very much out of his element there. 
Some of the bigger boys imagined it good fun to tease 
him, but on the whole he was rather a favorite, for he 
looked so pitiful and took everything so patiently. For 
my part, I was delighted at the chance of showing Elsie 
Duff some kindness through her brother. The girl’s 
sweetness clung to me, and not only rendered it impos- 
sible for me to be rude to any girl, but kept me awake 
to the occurrence of any opportunity of doing some- 
thing for her sake. Perceiving one day, before the 
master arrived, that Jamie was shivering with cold, I 
made way for him where I stood by the fire, and then 
found that he had next to nothing upon his little body 
and that the soles of his shoes were hanging half off. 
This in the month of March in the North of Scotland 
was bad enough, even if he had not had a cough. I 
told my father when I went home, and he sent me to 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 15 1 

tell Mrs. Mitchell to look out some old garments of 
Allister’s for him, but she declared there were none. 
When I told Turkey this he looked very grave, but said 
nothing. When I told my father he desired me to take 
the boy to the tailor and shoemaker, and get warm and 
strong clothes and shoes made for him. I was proud 
enough of the commission, and if I did act the grand 
benefactor a little, I have not yet finished the penance 
of it, for it never comes into my mind without bringing 
its shame with it. Of how many people shall I not 
have to beg the precious forgiveness when I meet them 
in the other world ! For the sake of this penal shame 
I confess I let the little fellow walk behind me as I took 
him through the streets. Perhaps I may say this for 
myself, that I never thought of demanding any service 
of him in return for mine ; I was not so bad as that. 
And I was true in heart to him notwithstanding my 
pride, for I had a real affection for him. I had not seen 
his sister — to speak to, I mean — since that Sunday night. 

One Saturday afternoon, as we were having a game 
something like hare and hounds, I was running very 
hard through the village, when I set my foot on a loose 
stone, and had a violent fall. When I got up I saw 
Jamie Duff standing by my side with a face of utter 
consternation. I discovered afterward that he was in 
the way of following me about. Finding the blood 
streaming down my face, and remarking when I came 
to myself a little that I was very near the house where 
Turkey’s mother lived, I crawled thither and up the 
stairs to her garret, Jamie following in silence. I found 
her busy as usual at her wheel, and Elsie Duff stood 
talking to her as if she had just run in for a moment 
and must not sit down. Elsie gave a little cry when 


152 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


she saw the state I was in, and Turkey’s mother got up 
and made me take her chair while she hastened to get 
some water, I grew faint and lost my consciousness. 
When I came to myself I was leaning against Elsie, 
whose face was as white as a sheet with dismay. I 
took a little water, and soon began to revive. 

When Turkey’s mother had tied up my head I rose 
to go home, but she persuaded me to lie down a while. 
I was not unwilling to comply. What a sense of bliss- 
ful repose pervaded me, weary with running, and per- 
haps faint with loss of blood, when I stretched myself 
on the bed, whose patchwork counterpane, let me say 
for Turkey’s mother, was as clean as any down quilt in 
chambers of the rich. 1 remember so well how a 
single ray of sunlight fell on the floor from the little 
window in the roof, just on the foot that kept turning 
the spinning-wheel. Its hum sounded sleepy in my 
ears. I gazed at the sloping ray of light, in which the 
ceaseless rotation of the swift wheel kept the motes 
dancing most busily, until at length to my half-closed 
eyes it became a huge Jacob’s ladder, crowded with an 
innumerable company of ascending and descending 
angels, and I thought it must be the same ladder I used 
to see in my dream. The drowsy delight which fol- 
lows on the loss of blood possessed me, and the little 
garret with the slanting roof, and its sloping sun-ray, 
and the whirr of the wheel, and the form of the patient 
woman that spun, had begun to gather about them the 
hues of Paradise to my slowly fading senses, when I 
heard a voice that sounded miles away and yet close to 
my ear : 

“ Elsie, sing a little song, will you?” 

I heard no reply. A pause followed, and then a 



“ I remember so well how a single ray of sunlight fell on the 
li.H.r.” Page 

153 (i » 















RANALD BANNBRMAN* *S BOYHOOD. 155 


voice, clear and melodious as a brook, began to sing, 
and before it ceased I was indeed in a kind of paradise 
But here I must pause. Shall I be breaking m)r 
promise of not a word of Scotch in my story if I give 
the song.? True, it is not a part of the story exactly, 
but it is in it. If my reader would like the song, he 
must have it in Scotch or not at all. I am not going to 
spoil it by turning it out of its own natural clothes into 
finer garments to which it was not born — I mean by 
translating it from Scotch into English. The best way 
will be this : I give the song as something extra — call 
it a footnote slipped into the middle of the page. No- 
body needs read a word of it to understand the story ; 
and being in smaller type, and a shape of its own, it 
can be passed over without the least trouble. 

SONG. 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the yorlin' sings, 

Wi’ a clip o’ the sunshine atween his wings ; 

Whaur the birks* are a’ straikit wi’ fair munelicht, 

And the broom hings its lamps by day and by nicht ; 

Whaur the burnie comes trottin’ ower shingle and stane. 

Liltin’ 3 bonny havers* til ’tsel’ alane ; 

And the sliddery^ troot, wi’ ae soop o’ its tail. 

Is awa’ ’neath the green weed’s swingin’ veil 1 
Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang as I saw 
The yorlin, the broom, an’ the burnie, an’ a’ I 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the primroses wonn, 

Luikin’ oot o’ their leaves like wee sons o’ the sun ; 

Whaur the wild roses hing like flickers o’ flame. 

And fa’ at the touch wi’ a dainty shame ; 

Whaur the bee swings ower the white clovery sod. 

And the butterfly flits like a stray thoucht o’ God ; 


* The Yellow-hammer. * Birch trees. * Singing. 

* Nonsense. ® Slippery. 


#56 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


Whaur, like arrow shot frae life’s unseen bow, 

The dragon-fly burns the sunlicht throu’ ! 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I sang to see 
The rose and the primrose, the draigon and bee I 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the mune luiks doon, 
As gin she war bearin’ a soundless tune. 

Whan the flowers an’ the birds are a’ asleep. 

And the verra burnie gangs creepy-creep ; 

Whaur the corn-craik craiks in the lang, lang rye, 

And the nicht is the safter for his rouch cry ; 

Whaur the wind wad fain lie doon on the slope. 

And the verra darkness owerflows wi’ hope ! 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur silent I felt 
The mune an’ the darkness baith into me melt. 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luiks in, 
Sayin’, Here awa’, there awa’, hand awa’, sin I 
Wi’ the licht o’ God in his flashin’ ee, 

Sayin’, Darkness and sorrow a’ work for me ! 

Whaur the lark springs up on his ain sang borne, 

Wi’ bird-shout and jubilee hailin’ the morn ; 

For his hert is fu’ o’ the hert o’ the licht. 

An’ come darkness or winter, a’ maun be richt ! 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the sun luikit in, 
Sayin’, Here awa’, there awa’, hand awa’, sin. 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lie 
Wi’ Jeanie aside me, sae sweet and sae shy ! 

Whaur the wee white gowan wi’ reid, reid tips 
Was as white as her cheek and as reid as her lips. 

Oh, her ee had a licht cam frae far 'yont the sun. 

And her tears cam frae deeper than salt seas run ! 

O’ the sunlicht and moonlicht she was the queen. 

For baith war but middlin’ without my Jean. 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur I used to lie 
Wi’ Jeanie aside me, sae sweet and sae shy ! 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, 

A’ day and a’ nicht, luikin’ up to the skies ; 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. I57 


Whaur the sheep wauk up i’ the summer nicht, 

Tak a bite, and lie doon, and await the licht ; 

Whaur the psalms roll ower the grassy heaps, 

And the wind comes and moans, and the rain comes and weeps ! 
But Jeanie, my Jeanie— she’s no lyin’ there. 

For she’s up and awa’ up the angels’ stair. 

Oh, the bonny, bonny dell, whaur the kirkyard lies, 

And the stars luik doon, and the nicht wind sighs 1 


Elsie’s \ oice went through every corner of my brain 
there was singing in all its chambers. I could not 
hear the words of the song well enough to understand 
them quite, but Turkey gave me a copy of them after- 
ward. They were the schoolmaster’s work. All the 
winter Turkey had been going to the evening school, 
and the master had been greatly pleased with him, and 
had done his best to get him on in various ways. A 
friendship sprung up between them, and one night he 
showed Turkey these verses. Where the air came 
from I do not know ; Elsie’s brain was full of tunes. 
I repeated them to my father once, and he was greatly 
pleased with them. 

On this first acquaintance, however, they put me to 
sleep, and little Jamie Duff was sent over to tell my 
father what had happened. Jamie gave the message to 
Mrs. Mitchell, and she, full of her own importance, 
must needs set out to see how much was the matter. 

I was dreaming an unutterably delicious dream. It 
was a summer evening. The sun was of a tremendous 
size and of a splendid rose color. He was resting with 
his lower edge on the horizon, and dared go no farther, 
because all the flowers would sing instead of giving out 
their proper scents, and if he left them, he fcaied utter 
anarchy in his kingdom before he got back in the 
14 


^ 5 ^ RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

morning. I woke and saw the ugly face of Mrs. 
Alitchell bending over me. She was pushing me, and 
calling to me to wake up. The moment I saw her I shut 
my eyes tight, turned away, and pretended to be fast 
asleep again, in the hope that she would go away. 

“Do let him have his sleep out, Mrs. Mitchell,*' 
said Turkey's mother. 

“ You’ve let him sleep too long already," she returned, 
ungraciously. “ He’ll do all he can, waking or sleep- 
ing, to make himself troublesome. He's a ne'er-do- 
well, Ranald. Little good 'ill ever come of him. It's 
a mercy his mother is under the mould, for he would 
have broken her heart." 

I had come to myself quite by this time, but I was 
not in the least more inclined to acknowledge it to Mrs. 
Mitchell. 

“You're wrong there, Mrs. Mitchell," said Elsie 
Duff, and my reader must remember it required a good 
deal of courage to stand up against a woman so much 
older tnan herself and occupying the important position 
of housekeeper to the minister. “ Ranald is a good 
boy I’m sure he is." 

How dare you say so, when he served your poor 
old grandmother such a wicked trick? It's little the 
children care for their parents nowadays. Don’t speak 
to me." 

No, don t, Elsie,” said another voice, accompanied 
by a creaking of the door and a heavy step. “ Don’t 
speak to her, Elsie, or you’ll have the worst of it. 
Leave her to me. If Ranald did what you say, Mts! 
Mitchell— and I don’t deny it— he was at least very 
sorry for it afterward, and begged grannie’s pardon, 
and that’s a sort of thing you never did in your life." 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 159 


“ I never had any occasion, Turkey ; so you hold 
your tongue.” 

“ Now don’t you call me Turkey. I won’t stand it. 
I was christened as well as you.” 

“And what are you to speak to me like that? Go 
home to your cows. I dare say they’re standing sup- 
perless in their stalls while you’re gadding about. I’ll 
call you Turkey as long as I please.” 

“Very well, Kelpie — that’s the name you’re known 
by, though perhaps no one has been polite enough to 
use it to your face, for you’re a great woman, no doubt 
— I give you warning that I know you. When you’re 
found out, don’t say I didn’t give you a chance before- 
hand.” 

“You impudent beggar!” cried Mrs. Mitchell, in a 
rage. “ And you’re all one pack,” she added, looking 
round on the two others. “ Get up, Ranald, and come 
home with me directly. What are you lying sham- 
ming there for.?” 

As she spoke she approached the bed, but Turkey 
was too quick for her, and got in front of it. As he 
was now a great strong lad she dared not lay hands 
upon him, so she turned in a rage and stalked out of 
the room, saying, 

“ Mr. Bannerman shall hear of this.” 

“ Then it ’ll be both sides of it, Mrs. Mitchell,” I 
cried ; but she vanished, vouchsafing me no reply. 

Once more Turkey got me on his back and carried 
me home. I told my father the whole occurrence. He 
examined the cut and plastered it up for me, saying he 
would go and thank Turkey’s mother at once. I con- 
fess I thought more of Elsie Duff and her wonderful 
singing, which had put me to sleep \ nd given me the 


l6o RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


strange lovely dream from which the rough hands and 
harsh voice of the Kelpie had waked me too soon. 

After this, although I never dared go near her grand- 
mother’s house alone, I yet, by loitering and watching, 
got many a peep of Elsie. Sometimes I went with 
Turkey to his mother’s of an evening, to which my 
father had no objection, and somehow or other Elsie 
was sure to be there, and we spent a very happy hour 
or two together. Sometimes she would sing, and some- 
times I would read to them out of Milton — I read the 
whole of Comus to them by degrees in this way — and 
although there was much I could not at all understand, 
I am perfectly certain it had an ennobling effect upon 
every one of us. It is not necessary that the intellect 
should define and separate before the heart and soul 
derive nourishment. As well say that a bee can get 
nothing out of a flower because she does not under- 
stand botany. The very music of the stately words of 
such a poem is enough to generate a better mood, to 
make one feel the air of higher regions and wish to 
rise “ above the smoke and stir of this dim spot.” The 
best influences which bear upon us are of this vague 
sort — powerful upon the heart and conscience, although 
undefined to the intellect. 

But I find I have been forgetting that those for whom 
I write are young — too young to understand this. Let 
it remain, however, for those older persons who at an 
odd moment, while waiting for dinner or before going 
to bed, may take up a little one’s book and turn over 
a few of its leaves. Some such readers, in virtue of 
their hearts being young and old both at once, discern 
more in the children’s books than the children them 
selves. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE bees’ nest. 

T was twelve o’clock on 
a delicious Saturday 
in the height of sum- 
mer. We poured out 
of school with the 
gladness of a holi- 
day in our hearts. I 
sauntered home full 
of the summer sun, 
and the summer 
wind, and the sum- 
mer scents which 
filled the air. I do 
not know how often 
I sat down in perfect 
bliss upon the earthen 
walls which divided 
the fields from the 
road, and basked in 
the heat. These walls were covered with grass and 
moss. The odor of a certain yellow, feathery flower 
which grew on them rather plentifully used to give me 
special delight. Great humble bees haunted the walls, 
and were poking about in them constantly. Butterflies 
also found them pleasant places, and I delighted in 

U* 161 



1 62 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD. 


butterflies, though I seldom succeeded in catching one. 
I do not remember that I ever killed one. Heart and 
conscience both were against that. I had got the loan 
of Mrs. Trimmer’s story of the family of robins, and 
was every now and then reading a page of it with 
unspeakable delight. We had very few books for 
children in those days and in that far out-of-the-waj 
place, and those we did get were the more dearly prized. 
It was almost dinner-time before I reached home. 
Somehow, in this grand weather, welcome as dinner 
always was, it did not possess the same amount of in- 
terest as in the cold, bitter winter. This day I almost 
hurried over mine to get out again into the broad sun- 
light. Oh how stately^ the hollyhocks towered on the 
borders of the shrubbery ! The guelder roses hung 
like balls of snow in their wilderness of green leaves ; 
and here and there the damask roses, dark almost to 
blackness, and with a soft, velvety surface, enriched the 
sunny air with their color and their scent. I never see 
these roses now. And the little bushes of polyanthus 
gemmed the dark earth between with their varied 
hues. We did not know anything about flowers ex- 
cept the delight they gave us, and I dare say I am put- 
ting some together which would not be out at the samt 
time, but that is how the picture comes back to mr 
memory. 

I was leaning in utter idleness over the gate that 
separated the little lawn and its surroundings from 
the road, when a troop of children passed, with little 
baskets and tin pails in their hands, and amongst them 
Jamie Duff. It was not in the least necessary to ask 
him where he was going. 

Not very far, about a mile or so from our house, rose 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 163 


a certain hill famed in the country round for its store 
of bilberries. It was the same to which Turkey and 
I had fled for refuge from the bull. It was called the 
Ba’ Hill, and a tradition lingered in the neighborhood 
that many years ago there had been a battle there, and 
that after the battle the conquerors played at foot-ball 
with the heads of the vanquished slain, and hence the 
name of the hill ; but who fought or which conquered 
there was not the shadow of a record. It had been a 
wild country, and conflicting clans had often wrought 
wild work in it. In summer the hill was of course the 
haunt of children gathering its bilberries. Jamie shyly 
suggested whether I would not join them, but they 
were all too much younger than myself ; and besides, I 
felt drawn to seek Turkey in the field with the cattle — 
that is, when I should get quite tired of doing nothing. 
So the little troop streamed on, and I remained leaning 
over the gate. 

I suppose I had sunk into a dreamy state, for I was 
suddenly startled by a sound beside me, and looking 
about, saw an old woman, bent nearly double within an 
old gray cloak, notwithstanding the heat. She leaned 
on a stick, and carried a bag like a pillow-case in her 
hand. It was one of the poor people of the village 
going her rounds for her weekly dole of a handful of 
oatmeal. I knew her very well by sight and by name 
—she was old Eppie— and a kindly greeting passed be- 
tween us. I thank God that the frightful poor-laws 
had not it vaded Scotland when I was a boy ! There 
was no degradation in honest poverty then, and it was 
no burden to those who supplied its wants, while every 
person was known, and kindly feelings were nourished 
on both sides. If I understand anything of human 


164 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

nature now, it comes partly of having known and re 
spected the poor of my father’s parish. She passed in 
at the gate, and went as usual to the kitchen door, while 
I stood drowsily contemplating the green expanse of 
growing crops in the valley before me. The day had 
grown as sleepy as myself. . There were no noises ex- 
cept the hum of the unseen insects and the distant rush 
of the water over the dams at our bathing-place. In a 
few minutes the old woman approached me again. She 
was an honest and worthy soul, and very civil in her 
manners. Therefore I was surprised to hear her mut- 
tering to herself. Turning, I saw she was very angry. 
She ceased her muttering when she descried me observ- 
ing her, and walked on in silence — was even about to 
pass through the little wicket at the side of the larger 
gate without any further salutation. Something had 
vexed her, and instinctively I put my hand in my 
pocket and pulled out a halfpenny my father had given 
me that morning — very few of which came in my way — 
and offered it to her. She took it with a half-ashamed 
glance, an attempt at a curtsey and a murmured bless- 
ing, Then for a moment she looked as if about to say 
something, but changing her mind, she only added an- 
other grateful word, and hobbled away. I pondered in 
a feeble fashion for a moment, came to the conclusion 
that the Kelpie had been rude to her, forgot her, and 
fell a-dreaming again. Growing at length tired of 
doing nothing, I roused myself, and set out to see 
Turkey. 

I have lingered almost foolishly over this day. But 
when I recall my childhood, this day always comes 
back as a type of the best of it. 

I remember I visited Kirsty, to find out where Turkey 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 165 

was. Kirsty welcomed me as usual, for she was always 
loving and kind to us ; and although I did not visit her 
so often now, she knew it was because I was more with 
my father, and had lessons to learn in which she could 
not assist me. Having nothing else to talk about, I told 
her of Eppie and her altered looks when she came out 
of the house. Kirsty compressed her lips, nodded her 
head, looked serious, and made me no reply. Thinking 
this was strange, I resolved to tell Turkey, which other- 
wise I might not have done. I did not pursue the matter 
with Kirsty, for I knew her well enough to know that 
her manner indicated a mood out of which nothing 
could be drawn. Having learned where he was, I set 
out to find him — close by the scene of our adventure 
with Wandering Willie. I soon came in sight of the 
cattle feeding, but did not see Turkey. 

When I came near the mound, I caught a glimpse 
of the head of old Mrs. Gregson^s cow quietly feeding 
off the top of the wall from the other side, like an out- 
cast Gentile, while my father’s cows, like the favored 
and greedy Jews, were busy in the short clover inside. 
Grannie’s cow managed to live notwithstanding, and I 
dare say gave as good milk, though not perhaps quite 
so much of it, as ill-tempered Hawkie. Mrs. Gregson’s 
granddaughter, however, who did not eat grass, was 
inside the wall, seated on a stone which Turkey had 
no doubt dragged there for her. Trust both her and 
Turkey, the cow should not have a mouthful without 
leave of my father. Elsie was as usual busy with her 
knitting. And now I caught sight of Turkey, run- 
ning from a neighboring cottage with a spade over 
his shoulder. Elsie had been minding the cows for 
him. 


f-66 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


“What’s ado, Turkey?” I cried, running to meet 
him. 

“ Such a wild-bees’ nest !” answered Turkey. “ I’m 
lo glad you’re come ! I was just thinking whether I 
wouldn’t run and fetch you. Elsie and I have been 
watching them going out and in for the last half hour. 
Such lots of bees ! There’s a store of honey there^ 

“But isn’t it too soon to take it, Turkey? There’ll 
be a great deal more in a few weeks. Not that I know 
anything about bees,” I added, deferentially. 

“You’re quite right, Ranald,” answered Turkey; 
“but there are several things to be considered. In the 
first place, the nest is by the roadside, and somebody 
else might find it. Next, Elsie has never tasted honey 
all her life, and it is so nice, and here she is, all ready 
to eat some. Thirdly, and lastly, as your father says — 
though not very often,” added Turkey, slyly, meaning 
that the lastly seldom came with the thirdly— '‘'‘ M 
we take the honey now, the bees will have plenty of 
time to gather enough for the winter before the flowers 
are gone, whereas if we leave it too long they will 
starve.” 

I was satisfled with this reasoning, and made no 
further objection. 

“ You must keep a sharp lookout though, Ranald,” 
he said, “ for they’ll be mad enough, and you must 
keep them off with your cap.” 

He took off his own and gave it to Elsie, saying : 

“ Here, Elsie ; you must, look out and keep off the 
bees. I can tell you a sting is no joke. I’ve had three 
myself.” 

“But what are you to do, Turkey.?” asked Elsie, 
with an anxious face. 



Taking the bees’ nest. 
167 


Page 166 








RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 169 


“ Oh, Ranald will keep them off me and himself too. 
I sha’n’t heed them. I must dig away and get at the 
honey.” 

All things being thus arranged, Turkey manfully 
approached the dyke., as they call any kind of wall- 
fence there. In the midst of the grass and moss was 
one little hole, through which the bees kept going and 
coming very busily. Turkey put in his finger and felt 
in what direction the hole went, and thence judging 
the position of the hoard, struck his spade with firm 
foot into the dyke. What bees were in came rushing 
out in fear and rage, and I had quite enough to do to 
keep them off our bare heads with my cap. Those 
who were returning, laden as they were, joined in the 
defence, but I did my best and with tolerable success. 
Elsie, being at a little distance and comparatively still, 
w’as less the object of their resentment. In a few mo- 
ments Turkey, had reached the store. Then he began 
to dig about it carefully to keep from spoiling the 
honey. First he took out a quantity of cells with noth- 
ing in them but grub-like things — the cradles of the 
young bees, they were. He threw them away, and went 
on digging as coolly as if he had been gardening. All 
the defence he left to me, and I assure you I had enough 
of it and thought mine the harder work of the two : 
hand or eye had no rest, and my mind was on the 
stretch of anxiety all the time. 

But now Turkey stooped to the nest, cleared away 
the earth about it with his hands, and with much care 
drew' out a great piece of honeycomb, just as well put 
together as the comb of any educated bees in a garden- 
hive, who know that they are working for critics. Its 
surface was even and yellow, showing that the cells 

H 


15 


1^0 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


were full to the brim of the rich store. I think I see 
Turkey weighing it in his hand, and turning it over to 
pick away some bits of adhering mould ere he pre- 
sented it to Elsie. She sat on her stone, like a patient, 
contented queen, waiting for what her subjects would 
bring her. 

“ Oh, Turkey, what a piece !” she said as she took it 
and opened her pretty mouth and white teeth to have & 
bite of the treasure. 

“ Now, Ranald,” said Turkey, “ we must finish the 
job before we have any ourselves.” 

He went on carefully removing the honey and piling 
it on the bank. There was not a great deal, because it 
was so early in the year, and there was not another 
comb to equal that he had given Elsie. But when he 
had got it all out, 

“ They’ll soon find another nest,” he said. “ I don’t 
think it’s any Use leaving this open for them. It spoils 
the dyke too.” 

As he spoke he began to fill up the hole and beat 
the earth down hard. Last of all he put in the sod 
first dug away, with the grass and flowers still growing 
upon it. This done, he proceeded to divide what re- 
mained of the honey. 

“ There’s a piece for Allister and Davie,” he said ; 
“and here’s a piece for you, and this for me, and Elsie 
can take the rest home for herself and Jamie.” 

Elsie protested, but w'e both insisted. Turkey got 
some nice clover and laid the bits of honeycomb in it. 
Then we sat and ate our shares, and chatted away for a 
long time, Turkey and I getting up every now and then 
to look after the cattle, and Elsie too having sometimes 
to follow her cow, when she threatened an inroad upon 


RANALD BA NNERMAN'S B O YHO OD. 1 7 1 

some neighboring field while we were away. But 
there was plenty of time between, and Elsie sung us 
two or three songs at our earnest request, and Turkey 
told us one or two stories out of history books he had 
been reading, and I pulled out my story of the robins 
and read to them. And so the hot sun went down the 
glowing west, and threw longer and longer shadows 
eastward. A great, shapeless blot of darkness, with 
legs to it, accompanied every cow and calf and bullock 
wherever it went. There was a new shadow crop in 
the grass, and a huge patch, with long tree-shapes at 
the end of it, stretched away from the foot of the hillock. 
The weathercock on the top of the church was glisten- 
ing such a bright gold that the wonder was how it 
could keep from breaking out into a crow that would 
rouse all the cocks of the neighborhood, even although 
they were beginning to get sleepy and thinking of going 
to roost. It was time for the cattle, Elsie’s cow in- 
cluded, to go home ; for, although the latter had not 
had such plenty to eat from as the rest, she had been at 
it all day, and had come upon several very nice little 
patches of clover that had overflowed the edges of the 
fields into the levels and the now dry ditches on the 
sides of the road. But just as we rose to break up the 
assembly we spied a little girl come flying across the 
field as if winged with news. As she came nearer we 
recognized her. She lived near Mrs. Gregson’s cottage, 
and was one of the little troop whom I had seen pass 
the manse on their way to gather bilberries. 

“Elsie! Elsie!” she cried, “John Adam has taken 
Tamie. Jamie fell and John got him.” 

Elsie looked frightened, but Turkey laughed, saying : 

“ Never mind, Elsie. John is better than he looks. 


^72 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

He won’t do him the least harm. He must mind his 
business, you know.” 

The Ba’ Hill was covered with a young plantation of 
firs, which, hardy as they were, had yet in a measure 
to be coaxed into growing in that inclement region. 
It was amongst their small stems that the coveted bil- 
berries grew, in company with cranberries and crow- 
berries and dwarf junipers. The children of the village 
thus attracted to the place were no doubt careless of 
the young trees, and might sometimes even amuse 
themselves with doing them damage. Hence the 
keeper, John Adam, whose business it was to look after 
them, found it his duty to wage war upon the annual 
hordes of these invaders, and in their eyes Adam was a 
terrible man. H was very long and very lean, with a 
flattish yet Roman nose and rather ill-tempered mouth, 
while his face was dead white and much pitted with 
the small-pox. He wore corduroy breeches, a blue 
coat and a nightcap striped horizontally with black 
and red. The youngsters pretended to determine, by 
the direction in which the tassel of it hung, what mood 
its owner was in ; nor is it for me to deny that their in- 
ductions may have led them to conclusions quite as 
correct as those of some other scientific observers. At 
all events, the tassel was a warning, a terror and a hope. 
He could not run very fast, fortunately, for the lean 
legs within those ribbed gray stockings were subject to 
rheumatism, and could take only long, not rapid strides ; 
and if the children had a tolerable start, and had not 
the misfortune to choose in their terror an impassable 
direction, they were pretty sure to get off. Jamie Duff, 
the most harmless and conscientious creature, who 
would not have injured a young fir upon any tempta- 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 173 

tion, did take a wrong direction, caught his foot in a 
hole, fell into a furze bush, and, nearly paralyzed with 
terror, was seized by the long fingers of Adam and 
ignominiously lifted by a portion of his garments into 
the vast aerial space between the ground and the white, 
pock-pitted face of the keeper. Too frightened to 
scream, too conscious of trespass to make any resist- 
ance, he was borne off as a warning to the rest of the 
very improbable fate which awaited them. 

But the character of Adam was not by any means so 
frightful in the eyes of Turkey, and he soon succeeded 
in partially composing the trepidation of Elsie, assuring 
her that as soon as he had put up the cattle he would 
walk over. to Adam’s house and try to get Jamie off, 
whereupon Elsie set off home with her cow, discon- 
solate but hopeful. I think I see her yet— for I recall 
^very picture of that lovely day clear as the light of 
that red sunset — walking slowly with her head bent 
half in trouble, half in attention to her knitting, after 
her solemn cow, which seemed to take twice as long 
to get over the ground because she had two pairs of 
legs instead of one to shuffle across it, dragging her 
long iron chain with the short stake at the end after her 
with a gentle clatter over the hard, dry road. I accom- 
panied Turkey, helped him to fasten up and bed the 
cows, went in with him and shared his hasty supper 
of potatoes and oat-cake and milk, and then set out, re- 
freshed and nowise apprehensive, in his company to 
seek the abode of the redoubtable ogre, John Adam. 


*74 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOTHOOD. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


VAIN INTERCESSION. 



E had a small farm of his own at the foot of the 


X ± hill of which he had the charge. It was a poor 
little place, with a very low thatched cottage for the 
dwelling. A sister kept house for him. When we 
approached it there was no one to be seen. We ad- 
vanced to the door along a rough pavement of round 
stones which parted the house from the dung-hill. I 
peeped in at the little window as we passed. There, 
to my astonishment, I saw Jamie Duff, as I thought,’ 
looking very happy and in the act of lifting a spoon to 
his mouth. A moment after, however, I concluded 
that I must have been mistaken, for, when Turkey 
lifted the latch and we walked in, there were the awftl 
John and his long sister seated at the table, while poor 
Jamie was in a corner, with no basin in his hand and a 
face that looked dismal and dreary enough. I fancied 
I caught a glimpse of Turkey laughing in his sleeve, 
and felt mildly indignant with him— for Elsie’s sake 
more, I confess, than for Jamie’s. 

“Come in,” said Adam, rising; but, seeing who it 
was, he seated himself again, adding: “Oh, it’s you 
Turkey 1” Everybody called him Turkey. “ Come in 
and take a spoon.” 

“No, thank you,” said Turkey; “I have had my 

supper. I only came to inquire after that young rascal 
there.” 

“Ah, you see him! There he is !” said Adam, look- 
ing toward me with an awful expression in his dead 
brown eyes. “ Starving. No home and no supper for 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 175 


him ! He’ll have to sleep in the hay-loft with the rats 
and mice and a stray cat or two.” 

Jamie put his cuffs, the perennial handkerchief of our 
poor little brothers, to his eyes. His fate was full of 
horrors. But again I thought I saw Turkey laughing 
in his sleeve. 

“ His sister is very anxious about him, Mr. Adam,” 
he said. “ Couldn’t you let him off this once.?” 

“ On no account. I am here in trust, and I must do 
my duty. The duke gives the forest in charge to me. 
I have got to look after it.” 

I could not help thinking what a poor thing it was 
for a forest. All I knew of forests was from story- 
books, and there they were full of ever such grand 
trees. Adam went on : 

“And if wicked boys will break down the trees — ” 

“I only pulled the bilberries,” interposed Jamie, in 
a whine which went off in a howl. 

“James Duff,” said Adam, with awful authority, “ I 
saw you myself tumble over a young larch tree not two 
feet high.” 

“ The worse for me !” sobbed Jamie. 

“ Tut ! tut ! Mr. Adam ! the larch tree wasn’t a baby,” 
said Turkey. “Let Jamie go. He couldn’t help it, 
you see.” 

“ It was a baby, and it is a baby,” said Adam, with 
a solitary twinkle in the determined dead brown of his 
eyes. “And I’ll have no intercession here. Trans- 
gressors must be prosecuted, as the board says. And 
prosecuted he shall be. He sha’n’t get out of this be- 
fore school-time to-morrow morning. He shall be late, 
too, and I hope the master will give it him well. We 
must make some examples, you see, Turkey. It’s no 


176 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 


use your saying anything. I don’t say Jamie’s a worse 
boy than the rest, but he’s just as bad, else how did he 
come to be there tumbling over my babies? Answer 
me that. Master Bannerman.” 

He turned and fixed his eyes upon me. There was 
question in his mouth, but neither question nor specu- 
lation in his eyes. I could not meet the awful change- 
less gaze. My eyes sank before his, 

“ Example, Master Bannerman, is everything. If 
you serve my trees as this young man has done” — the 
.idea of Jamie Duff being a young man ! — “ I’ll serve 
you the same as I serve him ; and that’s no sweet ser- 
vice, I’ll warrant.” 

As the keeper ended, he brought down his fist on the 
table with such a bang that poor Jamie almost fell off 
the stool on which he sat in the corner. 

“ But let him off just this once,” pleaded Turkey, 
“ and I’ll be surety for him that he’ll never do it again.” 

“ Oh, as to him. I’m not afraid of him,” returned the 
keeper ; “ but will you be surety for the fifty boys that’ll 
only make game of me if I don’t make an example of 
him? I’m in luck to have caught him. No, no, 
Turkey ; it won’t do, my man. I’m sor/y for his father 
and his mother, and his sister Elsie, for they’re all very 
good people ; but I must make an example of him.” 

At mention of his relatives Jamie burst into another 
suppressed howl. 

“ Well, you won’t be over hard upon him anyhow, 
will you now?” said Turkey. 

“ I won’t pull his skin quite over his ears,” said 
Adam ; “ and that’s all the promise you’ll get out of. 
me. 

The tall, thin, grim sister had sat all the time as if she 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 177 

had no right to be aware of anything that was going 
on, but her nose, which was more hooked than her 
brother’s, and larger, looked as if, in the absence of 
eyes and ears, it was taking cognizance of everything, 
and would inform the rest of the senses afterward. 

I had a suspicion that the keeper’s ferocity was 
assumed for the occasion, and that he was not such an 
ogre as I had considered him. Still, the prospect of 
poor little Jamie spending the night alone in the loft 
amongst the cats and rats was sufficiently dreadful 
when I thought of my midnight awaking in the barn. 
There seemed to be no help, however, especially when 
Turkey rose to say good-night. 

I felt disconsolate, and was not well pleased with 
Turkey’s coolness. I thought he had not done his best. 

When we got into the road, 

“ Poor Elsie !” I said ; “ she’ll be miserable about 
Jamie.” 

“ Oh no,” returned Turkey ; “ I’ll go straight over 
and tell her. No harm will come to Jamie. John 
Adam’s bark is a good deal worse than his bite. Only 
I should have liked to take him home if I could.” 

It was now twilight, and through the glimmering 
dusk we walked back to the manse. Turkey left me 
at the gate and strode on toward the village ; while I 
turned in, revolving a new scheme which had arisen in 
my brain, and for the first time a sense of rivalry with 
Turkey awoke in my bosom. He did everything for 
Elsie Duff, and I did nothing. For her he had robbed 
the bees’ nest that very day, and I had but partaken of 
the spoil. Nay, he had been stung in her service ; for, 
with all my care — and I think that on the whole I had 
done my best — he had received what threatened to be 

H* 


178 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

a bad sting on the back of his neck. Now he was 
going to comfort her about her brother, whom he had 
failed to rescue ; but what if I should succeed where 
he had failed, and carry the poor boy home in triumph ! 

As we left the keeper’s farm, Turkey had pointed 
out to me, across the yard, where a small rick or two 
were standing, the loft in which Jamie would have to 
sleep. It was over the cart-shed, and its approach was 
a ladder. But for the reported rats it would have been 
no hardship to sleep there in weather like this, espe- 
cially for one who had been brought up as Jamie had 
been. But I knew that he was a very timid boy, and 
that I myself would have lain in horror all the night. 
Therefore I had all the way been turning over in my 
mind what I could do to release him. But whatever 
I did must be unaided, for I could not reckon upon 
Turkey, nor indeed was it in my heart to share with 
him the honor of the enterprise that opened before me. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 

I MUST mention that my father never objected now 
to my riding his little mare Missy, as we called 
ner. Indeed, I had great liberty with regard to her, 
and took her out for a trot and a gallop as often as I 
pleased. Sometimes, when there was a press of work, 
she would have to go in a cart or drag a harrow, for 
she was so handy they could do anything with her; 
but this did not happen often, and her condition at all 
seasons of the year testified that she knew little of hard 
work. My father was very fond of her, and used to 


RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD, 1 79 

tell wonderful stories of her judgment and skill. I be- 
lieve he was never quite without a hope that somehow 
or other he should find her again in the next world. 
At all events I am certain that it was hard for him to 
believe that so much wise affection should have been 
created to be again uncreated. I cannot say that I ever 
heard him give utterance to anything of the sort ; but 
whence else should I have had such a firm conviction, 
dating from a period farther back than my memory can 
reach, that whatever might become of the other horses, 
Missy was sure to go to heaven? I had a kind of 
notion that, being the bearer of my father upon all his 
missions of doctrine and mercy, she belonged to the 
clergy, and, sharing in their privileges, must have a 
chance before other animals of her kind. I believe this 
was a right instinct glad of a foolish reason, I am 
wiser now, and extend the hope to the rest of the 
horses, for I cannot believe that the God who does 
nothing in vain ever creates in order to destroy. 

I made haste to learn my lessons for the Monday, 
although it was but after a fashion, my mind was so 
full of the adventure before me. As soon as prayers 
and supper were over — that is, about ten o’clock — I 
crept out of the house and away to the stable. It was 
a lovely night. A kind of gray peace filled earth and 
air and sky. It was not dark, although rather cloudy — 
only a dim dusk, like a vapor of darkness, floated 
around everything. I was fond of being out at night, 
but I had never before contemplated going so far alone. 

, I should not, however, feel alone with Missy under me, 
for she and I were on the best of terms, although some 
times she would take a fit of obstinacy and refuse to 
go in any other than the direction she pleased. 


l8o RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOTHOOD. 

late, however, she had asserted herself less frequently 
in this manner. I suppose she was aware that I grew 
stronger and more determined. 

I soon managed to open the door of the stable, for I 
knew w^here the key lay. It was very dark, but I felt 
my way through, talking all the time that the horses 
might not be startled if I came upon one of them un- 
expectedly, for the stable was narrow, and they some- 
times lay a good bit out of their stalls. I took care, 
however, to speak in a low tone that the man, who 
slept with only a wooden partition between him and 
the stable, might not hear. I soon had the bridle upon 
Missy, but wmuld not lose time in putting on the saddle. 
I led her out, got on her back with the help of a stone 
at the stable door, and rode away. She had scarcely 
been out all day, and was rather in the mood for a 
ride. The voice of Andrew, whom the noise of her 
feet had aroused, came after me, calling to know who 
it was. I called out in reply, for I feared he might 
rouse the place ; and he went back composed, if not 
contented. It was no use, at all events, to follow me. 

I had not gone far before the extreme stillness of the 
night began to sink into my soul and make me quiet. 
Everything seemed thinking about me, but nothing 
would tell me what it thought. Not feeling, howevei^, 
that I was doing wrong, I was only awed, not frightened, 
by the stillness. I made Missy slacken her speed, and 
rode on more gently, in better harmony with the night. 
Not a sound broke the silence except the rough cry of 
the land-rail from the fields, and the clatter of Missy’s 
feet. I did not like the noise she made, and got upon 
the grass, for here there was no fence. But the moment 
she felt the soft grass, off she went at a sudden gallop. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. i8l 


Her head was out before I had the least warning of her 
intention. She tore away over the field in quite another 
direction from that in which I had been taking her, and 
the gallop quickened until she was going at her utmost 
speed. The rapidity of the motion and the darkness 
together — for it seemed darkness now — I confess made 
me frightened. I pulled hard at the reins, but without 
avail. In a minute I had lost my reckoning, and could 
not tell where I was in the field, which was a pretty 
large one ; but soon finding that we were galloping 
down a hill so steep that I had trouble in retaining my 
seat, I began, not at all to my comfort, to surmise in 
what direction the mare was carrying me. We were 
approaching the place where we had sat that same 
afternoon, close by the mound with the trees upon it, 
the scene of my adventure with Wandering Willie and 
of the fancied murder. I had scarcely thought of either 
until the shadows had begun to fall long, and now in 
the night, when all was shadow, both refiections made 
it horrible. Besides, if Missy should get into the bog! 
But she knew better than that, wild as her mood was. 
She avoided it, and galloped past, but bore me to a far 
more frightful goal, suddenly dropping into a canter, 
and then standing stock-still. 

It was a cottage half in ruins, occupied by an old 
woman whom I dimly recollected having once gone 
with my father to see — a good many years ago, as it 
appeared to me now. She was still alive, however, 
very old, and bedridden. I recollected that from the 
top of her wooden bed hung a rope for her to pull her- 
self up by when she wanted to turn, for she was very 
rheumatic, and this rope for some cause or other had 
filled me with horror. But there was more of the 


16 


i 82 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD, 

same sort. The cottage had once been a smithy, and 
the bellows had been left in its place. Now there is 
nothing particularly frightful about a pair of bellows, 
however large it may be, and yet the recollection of 
that huge structure of leather and wood, with the great 
iron nose projecting from the contracting cheeks of it, 
at the head of the old woman’s bed, so capable yet so 
useless, did return upon me with terror in the dusk of 
that lonely night. It was mingled with a vague sus- 
picion that the old woman was a bit of a witch, and a 
very doubtful memory that she had been seen on one 
occasion by some night-farer, when a frightful storm 
was raging, blowing away at that very bellows as hard 
as her skinny arms and lean body could work the lever, 
so that there was almost as great a storm of wind in 
her little room as there was outside of it. If there 
was any truth in the story, it is easily accounted for 
by the fact that the poor old woman had been a little 
out of her mind for many years — and no wonder, for 
she was nearly a hundred, they said. Neither is it any 
wonder that when Missy stopped almost suddenly, with 
her fore feet and her neck stretched forward, and her 
nose pointed straight for the door of the cottage at a 
few yards’ distance, I should have felt very queer in- 
deed. Whether my hair stood on end or not I do not 
know, but I certainly did feel my skin creep all over 
me. An ancient elder tree grew at one end of the 
cottage, and I heard the lonely sigh of a little breeze 
wander through its branches. The next instant a fright- 
ful sound from within the cottage broke the night air 
into what seemed a universal shriek. Missy gave a 
plunge, turned round on her hind legs, and tore from 
th"e place. I very nearly lost my seat, but terror made 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 183 


me cling the faster to my only companion as ventre-a^ 
terre she flew home. It did not take her a minute to 
reach the stable door. There she had to stop, for I 
had shut it when I brought her out. It was mortifying 
to find myself there instead of under John Adam’s hay- 
loft, the rescuer of Jamie Duff. But I did not think 
of that for a while. Shaken with terror, and afraid 
to dismount and be next the ground, I called upon 
Andrew as well as my fear would permit; but my 
voice was nearly unmanageable, and I could do little 
more than howl with it. 

In a few minutes, to me a time of awful duration — 
for who could tell what might be following me up from 
the hollow? — Andrew appeared half-dressed, and not 
in the best of tempers, remarking it was an odd thing 
to go out riding when honest people were in their beds, 
except, he added, I meant to take to the highway. 
Thereupon, rendered more communicative by the trial 
I had gone through, I told him the whole story, what 
I had intended and how I had been frustrated. He lis- 
tened, scratched his head, and saying some one ought 
to see if anything was the> matter with the old woman, 
turned in to put on the rest of his clothes. 

“ You had better go home to bed, Ranald,” he said. 

“ Won’t you be frightened, Andrew?” I asked. 

“Frightened? What should I be frightened at? 
It’s all waste to be frightened before you know whether 
the thing is worth it.” 

My courage had been reviving fast in the warm 
presence of a human being. I was still seated on 
Missy. To go home having done nothing for Jamie, 
and therefore nothing for Elsie, after all my grand ideas 
of rescue and restoration, was too mortifying. I should 


184 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

feel so small when I woke in the morning ! And yet 
suppose the something which gave that fearful cry in 
the cottage should be out roaming the fields and look- 
ing for me. I had courage enough, however, to re- 
main where I was till Andrew came out again, and as 
I sat still on the mare’s back my courage gradually 
rose. Nothing increases terror so much as running 
away. When he reappeared I asked him : 

“ What do you think it could be, Andrew.?” 

“ How should I tell ?” returned Andrew. “ The old 
woman has a very queer cock, I know, that always 
roosts on the top of her bed, and crows like no cock I 
ever heard crow. Or it might be Wandering Willie ; 
he goes to see her sometimes, and the demented crea- 
ture might strike up his pipes at any unearthly hour.” 

I was not satisfied with either suggestion, but the 
sound I had heard had already grown so indistinct in 
my memory that for anything I could tell it might have 
been either. The terror which it woke in my mind 
had rendered me incapable of making any observations 
or setting down any facts with regard to it. I could 
only remember that I had heard a frightful noise, but 
as to what it was like I could scarcely bear the smallest 
testimony. 

I begged Andrew to put the saddle on for me, as I 
should then have more command of Missy. He went 
and got it, appearing, I thought, not at all over-anxious 
about old Betty ; and I meantime buckled on an old 
rusty spur which lay in the stable window, the leathers 
of it crumbling off in flakes. Thus armed and mounted, 
with my feet in the stirrups, and therefore a good pull 
on Missy s mouth, I found my courage once more equal 
to the task before me. Andrew and I parted at right • 


RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 1S5 

angles , he across the field to old Betty’s cottage, and 1 
along the road once more in the direction of John 
Adam’s farm. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

FAILURE. 

I T must have been now about eleven o’clock. The 
clouds had cleared off and the night had changed 
from brown and gray to blue sparkling with gold. I 
could see much better, and fancied I could hear better 
too. But neither advantage did much for me. I had 
not ridden far from the stable before I again found my- 
self very much alone and unprotected, with only the 
wide, silent fields about me and the wider and more 
silent sky over my head. The fear began to return. 
I fancied something strange creeping along every ditch 
—something shapeless, but with a terrible cry in it. 
Next I thought I saw a scarcely visible form, now like 
a creature on all-fours, now like a man, far off, but 
coming rapidly toward me across the nearest field. It 
always vanished, however, before it came close. The 
worst of it was, that the faster I rode the more fright- 
ened I became, for my speed seemed to draw the ter- 
rors the faster after me. Having discovered this, I 
changed my plan, and when I felt more frightened, 
drew rein and went slower. This was to throw a sort 
of defiance to the fear ; and certainly as often as I did 
so it abated. Fear is a worse thing than danger. 

I had to pass very nigh the pool to which Turkey 
and I had gone the night of our adventure with Bog- 
bonnie’s bull. That story was now far oft' in the past, 


16 ♦ 


l86 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 

but I did not relish the dull shine of the water in the 
hollow, notwithstanding’. In fact, I owed the greater 
part of the courage I possessed — and it was little 
enough for my needs — to Missy. I dared not have 
gone on my own two legs. It was not that I could so 
easily run away with four instead, but that somehow I 
was lifted above the ordinary level of fear by being 
upon her back. I think many men draw their courage 
out of their horses. 

At length I came in sight of the keeper’s farm, and 
just at that moment the moon peeped from behind a 
hill, throwing as long shadows as the setting sun, but 
in the other direction. The shadows were very differ- 
ent too. Somehow they were liker to the light that 
made them than the sun shadows are to the sunlight. 
Both the light and the shadows of the moon were 
strange and fearful to me. The sunlight and its shad- 
ows are all so strong and so real and so friendly you 
seem to know all about them; they belong to your 
house, and they sweep all fear and dismay out of honest 
people’s hearts. But with the moon and its shadows it 
is very different indeed. The fact is, the moon is try- 
ing to do what she cannot do. She is trying to dispel 
a great sumshadow, for the night is just the gathering 
into one mass of all the shadows of the sun. She is not 
able for this, for her light is not her own ; it is second- 
hand from the sun himself ; and her shadows therefore 
also are second-hand shadows — pieces cut out of the 
great sun-shadow and colored a little with the moon’s 
yellowness. If I were writing for grown people, I 
should tell them that those who understand things be- 
cause they think about them and ask God to teach 
them walk in the sunlight; and others, who take 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 187 

things because other people tell them so, are always 
walking in the strange moonlight, and are subject to no 
end of stumbles and terrors, for they hardly know light 
from darkness. Well, at first the moon frightened me 
a little, she looked so knowing, and yet all she said 
round about me was so strange. But I rode quietly 
up to the back of the yard where the ricks stood, got 
off Missy and fastened the bridle to the gate, and walked 
across to the cart-shed, where the moon was shining 
upon the ladder leading up to the loft. I climbed the 
ladder, and after several failures succeeded in finding 
how the door was fastened. When I opened it the 
moonlight got in before me, and poured all at once 
upon a heap of straw in the farthest corner, where 
Jamie was lying asleep with a rug over him. I crossed 
the floor, knelt down by him and tried to wake him. 
This was not so easy. He was far too sound asleep to 
be troubled by the rats, for sleep is an armor — yes, a 
castle — against many enemies. I got hold of one of 
his hands, and in lifting it to pull him up found a cord 
tied to his wrist. I was indignant : they had actually 
manacled him like a thief! I gave the cord a great 
tug of anger, pulled out my knife and cut it, then, 
hauling Jamie up, got him half awake at last. He 
stared with fright first, and then began to cry. As soon 
as he was awake enough to know me he stopped cry- 
ing, but not staring, and his eyes seemed to have nothing 
\)etter than moonlight in them. 

“ Come along, Jamie,” I said. “ I’m come to take 
you home.” 

“ I don’t want to go home,” said Jamie. “ I want 
to go to sleep again.” 

“ That’s very ungrateful of you, Jamie,” I said, full 


iSS RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

of my own importance, “when IVe come so far, and all 
at night too, to set you free.’^ 

“ I’m free enough,” said Jamie. “ I had a better 
supper a great deal than I should have had at home. 
I don’t want to go before the morning.” 

And he began to whimper again. 

“ Do you call this free.?” I said, holding up his wrist, 
where the remnant of the cord was hanging. 

“ Oh,” said Jamie, “ that’s only — ” 

But ere he got farther the moonlight in the loft was 
darkened. I looked hurriedly toward the door. There 
stood the strangest figure, with the moon behind it. I 
thought at first it was the Kelpie come after me, for it 
was a tall woman. My heart gave a great jump up, 
but I swallowed it down. I would not disgrace my- 
self before Jamie. It was not the Kelpie, however, but 
the keeper’s sister, the great, grim, gaunt woman I had 
seen at the table at supper. I will not attempt to de- 
scribe her appearance. It was peculiar enough, for she 
had just got out of bed and thrown an old shawl about 
her. She was not pleasant to look at. I had myself 
raised the apparition, for, as Jamie explained to me 
afterward, the cord which was tied to his wrist, instead 
of being meant to keep him a prisoner, was a device 
of her kindness to keep him from being too frightened. 
The other end had been tied to her wrist, that if any- 
thing happened he might pull her, and then she would 
come to him. 

“ What’s the matter, Jamie Duff.?” she said in a 
gruff voice as she advanced along the stream of moon- 
light. 

I stood up as bravely as I could. 

“ It’s only me. Miss Adam,” I said. 



“ There stood the strangest figure. 

189 


Page 18^:. 





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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 191 


“ And who are you ?” she returned. 

“ Ranald Bannerman,” I answered. 

“ Oh !” she said in a puzzled tone. “ What are you 
doing here at this time of the night.?” 

“ I came to take Jamie home, but he won^t go.” 

“You’re a silly boy to think my brother John would 
do him any harm,” she returned. “ You’re comfort- 
able enough, aren’t you, Jamie Duff.?” 

“Yes, thank you, ma’am, quite comfortable,” said 
Jamie, who was now wide awake. “ But, please, 
ma’am, Ranald didn’t mean any harm.” 

“ He’s a housebreaker, though,” she rejoined with a 
grim chuckle, “ and he’d better go home again as fast 
as he can. If John Adam should come out, I don’t ex- 
actly know what might happen. Or perhaps he’d like 
to stop and keep you company.” 

“No, thank you. Miss Adam,” I said. “I will go 
home.” 

“ Come along, then, and let me shut the door after 
you.” 

Somewhat nettled with Jamie Duff’s indifference to 
my well-meant exertions on his behalf, I followed her 
without even bidding him good-night. 4 

“ Oh, you’ve got Missy, have you?” she said, spying 
her where she stood. “ Would you like a drink of 
milk or a piece of oat-cake before you go?” 

“ No, thank you,” I said. “ I shall be glad to go to 
bed.” 

“ I should think so,” she answered. “Jamie is quite 
comfortable, I assure you, and I’ll take care he s in 
time for school in the morning. There s no harm in 
him., poor thing !” 

She undid the bridle for me, helped me to mount in 


192 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


the kindest way, bade me good-night, and stood look 
ing after me till I was some distance off. I went home 
at a good gallop, took off the saddle and bridle and laid 
them in a cart in the shed, turned, Missy loose in the 
stable, shut the door, and ran across the field to the 
manse, desiring nothing but bed. 

When I came near the house from the back, I saw a 
figure entering the gate from the front. It was in the 
full light of the moon, which was now up a good way. 
Before it had reached the door I had got behind the 
next corner, and peeping round saw that my first im- 
pression was correct : it was the Kelpie. She entered, 
and closed the door behind her very softly. Afraid of 
being locked out — a danger which had scarcely occurred 
to me before — I hastened after her ; but finding the door 
already fast, I called through the keyhole. She gave a 
cry of alarm, but presently opened the door, looking 
pale and frightened. 

“ What are you doing out of doors this time of 
the night.?” she asked, but without quite her usual 
arrogance, for, although she tried to put it on, her 
voice trembled too much. 

I retorted the question. 

“What were you doing out yourself.?” I said, put- 
ting on a bold front. 

“ Looking after you, of course.” 

“That’s why you locked the door, I suppose — to 
keep me out.” 

She had no answer ready, but looked as if she would 
have struck me. 

“ I shall let your father know of your goings on,” 
she said, recovering herself a little. 

“ You need not take the trouble. I shall tell him 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 193 

myself at breakfast to-morrow morning. I have nothing 
to hide. You had better tell him too.” 

I said this not that I did not believe she had been out 
to look for me, but because I thought she had locked 
the door to annoy me, and I wanted to take my revenge 
in rudeness. For doors were seldom locked in the 
summer nights in that part of the country. She made 
me no reply, but turned and left me, not even shutting 
the door. I closed it, and went to bed wea*^y enough. 

17 I 



I 


CHAPTER XXV. 


TURKEY PLOTS. 

HE next day, at breakfast, 
I told my father all the 
previous day’s adventures. 
Never since he had so 
kindly rescued me from the 
misery of wickedness had 
I concealed anything from 
him. He, on his part, while 
he gave us every freedom, 
expected us to speak frankly 
concerning our doings. To 
have been unwilling to let 
him know any of our pro- 
ceedings would have simply 
argued that they were al- 
ready disapproved of by ourselves, and no second in- 
stance of this had yet occurred with me. Hence it 
came that still as I grew older 1 seemed to come nearer 
to my father. He was to us like a wiser and more 
beautiful self over us — a more enlightened conscience, 
as it were, ever lifting us up toward its own higher 
level. 

This was Sunday, but he was not so strict in his 
ideas concerning the day as most of his parishioners. 
So long as we were sedate and orderly, and neither 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 195 


talked nor laughed too loud, he seldom interfered with 
our behavior, or sought to alter the current of our con- 
versation. I believe he did not, like some people, re- 
quire or expect us to care about religious things as much 
as he did : we could not yet know as he did what they 
really were. But when any of the doings of the week 
were referred to on the Sunday, he was more strict, I 
think, than on other days, in bringing them, if they 
involved the smallest question, to the standard of right, 
to be judged, and approved or condemned thereby. I 
believe he thought that to order our ways was our best 
preparation for receiving higher instruction afterward. 
For one thing, we should then, upon failure, feel the 
burden of it the more, and be the more ready to repent 
and seek the forgiveness of God, and that best help of 
nis which at length makes a man good within himself. 

He listened attentively to my story, seemed puzzled 
at the cry I had heard from the cottage, said nothing 
could have gone very wrong or we should have heard 
of it, especially as Andrew had been to inquire, laughed 
over the apparition of Miss Adam and my failure in 
rescuing Jamie Duff*. He said, however, that I had no 
right to interfere with constituted authority ; that Adam 
was put there to protect the trees, and if he had got 
hold of a harmless person, yet Jamie was certainly 
trespassing, and I ought to have been satisfied with 
Turkey’s way of looking at the matter. 

I saw that my father was right, and a little furthei 
reflection convinced me that, although my conduct had 
a root in my regard for Jamie Duff, it had a deeper root 
in my regard for his sister, and one yet deeper in my 
regard for myself, for had I not longed to show off in 
her eyes.? I suspect almost all silly actions have their 


196 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


root in selfishness, whether it take the form of vaniif, 
of conceit, of greed or of ambition. 

While I was telling my tale, Mrs. Mitchell kept 
coming into the room oftener and lingering longer 
than usual. I did not think of this till afterward. I 
said nothing about her, for I saw no occasion, but I 
do not doubt she was afraid I would, and wished to be 
at hand to defend herself. She was a little more friendly 
to me in church that day ; she always sat beside little 
Davie, 

When we came out, I saw Andrew, and hurried after 
him to hear how he had sped the night before. He 
told me he had found all perfectly quiet at the cottage, 
except the old woman’s cough, which was troublesome, 
and gave proof that she was alive, and probably as well 
as usual. He suggested now that the noise was all a 
fancy of mine, at which I was duly indignant, and 
desired to know if it was also Missy’s fancy that made 
her go off like a mad creature. He then returned to 
his former idea of the cock, and as this did not insult 
my dignity, I let it pass, leaning however myself to the 
notion of Wandering Willie’s pipes. 

On the following Wednesday we had a half holiday, 
and before dinner I went to find Turkey at the farm. 
He met me in the yard, and took. me into the barn. 

“ I want to speak to you, Ranald,” he said. 

I remember so well how the barn looked that day. 
The upper half of one of the doors had a hole in it, 
and a long pencil of sunlight streamed in, and fell like 
a pool of glory upon a heap of yellow straw. So 
golden grew the straw beneath it that the spot looked 
as if it were the source of the shine, and sent the slant- 
ing ray up and out of the hole in the door. We sat 


c 



“Ranald,” said Turkey, “ I can’t bear that the master should havi 
Dad people about him.” '^99- 


17 * 


197 








I 


RANALD BANNBRMANS BOYHOOD. 199 

down beside it, I wondering why Turkey looked so 
serious and important, for it was not his wont. 

“ Ranald,” said Turkey, “ I can’t bear that the master 
should have bad people about him.” 

“What do you mean, Turkey.?” I rejoined. 

“ I mean the Kelpie.” 

“ She’s a nasty thing, I know,” I answered. “ But 
my father considers her a faithful servant.” 

“ That’s just where it is. She is not faithful. I’ve 
suspected her for a long time. She’s so rough and ill- 
tempered that she looks honest, but I shall be able to 
show her up yet. You wouldn’t call it honest to cheat 
the poor, would you 

“ I should think not. But what do you mean ?” 

“ There must have been something to put old Eppie 
in such an ill-temper on Saturday, don t you think? 

“ I suppose she had a sting from the Kelpie’s tongue.” 

“No, Ranald, that’s not it. I had heard whispers 
going about ; and last Saturday, after we came home 
from John Adam’s, and after I had told Elsie about 
Jamie, I ran up the street to old Eppie. You would 
have got nothing out of her, for she would not have 
liked to tell you, but she told me all about it.” 

“ What a creature you are, Turkey ! Everybody tells 
you everything.” 

“No, Ranald, I don’t think I am such a gossip 
as that. But when you have a chance, you ought to 
set right whatever you can. Right’s the only thing, 
Ranald.” 

“ But aren’t you afraid they’ll call you a meddler, 
Turkey? Not that / think so, for I’m sure if you do 
anything against anybody, it’s>r some other body.” 

“ That would be no justification if I wasn’t in the 


200 RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


right,” said Turkey. “ But; if I am, I’m willing to bear 
any blame that comes of it. And I wouldn’t meddle for 
anybody that could take care of himself. But neither 
old Eppie nor your father can do that; the one’s too 
poor and the other too good.” 

“ I was wondering what you meant by saying my 
lither couldn’t take care of himself.” 

“He’s too good— he’s too good, Ranald. He be- 
lieves in everybody, /wouldn’t have kept that Kelpie 
in my house half the time.” 

“ Did you ever say anything to Kirsty about her.?” 

“ I did once, but she told me to mind my own busi- 
ness. Kirsty snubs me because I laugh at her stories. 
But Kirsty is as good as gold, and I wouldn’t mind if 
she boxed my ears — as indeed she’s done many’s the 
time.” 

“ But wha.’s the Kelpie been doing to old Eppie.?” 

“ First of all, Eppie has been playing her a trick.” 

“ Then she mustn’t complain.” 

“ Eppie’s was a lawful trick, though. The old wo- 
men have been laying their old heads together— But 
to begin at the beginning : there has been for some time 
a growing conviction amongst the poor folk that the 
Kelpie never gives them an honest handful of meal 
when they go their rounds. But this was very hard 
to prove, and, although they all suspected it, few of 
them were absolutely certain about it. So they resolved 
that some of them should go with empty bags. Every 
one of those found a full handful at the bottom. Still 
they were not satisfied. They said she was the one to 
take care what she was about. Thereupon old Eppie 
resolved to go with something at the bottom of her bag 
to look like a g >nd quantity of meal already gathered 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 201 


The moment the door was closed behind her — that was 
last Saturday — she peeped into the bag. Not one grain 
of meal was to be discovered. That was why she passed 
you muttering to herself and looking so angry. Now 
it will never do that the manse, of all places, should be 
the one where the poor people are cheated of their dues. 
But we must have yet better proof than this oefore we 
can say anything.” 

“ Well, what do you mean to do, Turkey.'*” I asked. 
“ Why does she do it, do you suppose? It’s not for the 
sake of saving my father’s meal, I should think.” 

“ No, she does something with it, and, I suppose, 
flatters herself she is not stealing — only saving it off the 
poor, and so making a right to it for herself. I can’t 
help thinking that her being out that same night had 
something to do with it. Did you ever know her go to 
see old Betty .?” 

‘‘ No. She doesn’t like her. I know that.” 

“ I’m not so sure. She pretends perhaps. But we’ll 
have a try. I think I can outwit her. She’s fair game, 
you know.” 

“ How? What? Do tell me, Turkey,” I cried, right 
eagerly. 

“ Not to-day. I will tell you by and by.” 

He got up and went about his work. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

OLD JOHN JAMIESON. 

A S I returned to the house I met my father. 

“Well, Ranald, what are you about?” he said 
in his usual gentle tone 

I ♦ 


202 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD, 


“ Nothing in particular, father,” I answered. 

“ Well, Tm going to see an old man — John Jamieson. 
I don’t think you know him ; he has not been able 
to come to church for a long time. They tell me he is 
dying. Would you like to go with me.?” 

“Yes, father. But won’t you take Missy.?” 

‘ Not if you will walk with me. It’s only about 
three miles.” 

“ Very well, father. I should like to go with you.” 

My father talked about various things on the way. 
I remember in particular some remarks he made about 
reading Virgil, for I had just begun the yEneid. For 
one thing, he told me I must scan every line until I 
could make it sound like poetry, else I should neither 
enjoy it properly nor be fair to the author. Then he 
repeated some lines from Milton, saying them first just 
as if they were prose, and after that the same lines as 
they ought to be sounded, making me mark the differ- 
ence. Next, he did the same with a few of the opening 
lines of Virgil’s great poem, and made me feel the dif- 
ference there. 

“ The sound is the shape of it, you know, Ranald,” 
he said, “ for a poem is all for the ear and not for the 
eye. The eye sees only the sense of it ; the ear sees 
the shape of it. To judge poetry without heeding the 
sound of it is nearly as bad as to judge a rose by smell- 
ing it with your eyes shut. The sound, besides being 
a beautiful thing in itself, has a sense in it which helps 
the other out. A psalm tune, if it’s the right one, helps 
you to see how beautiful the psalm is. Every poem 
carries its own tune in its own heart, and to read it 
aloud is the only way to bring out its tune ” 

I liked Virgil ever so much better after this, and 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 203 


always tried to get at the tune of it, and of every other 
poem I read. 

“ The right way of anything,” said my father, “ may 
be called the tune of it. We have to find out the tune 
of our own lives. Some people don’t seem ever to find 
it out, and so their lives are a broken and uncomfort- 
able thing to them, full of ups and downs and disap- 
pointments, and never going as it was meant to go.” 

“ But what is the right tune of a body’s life, father 

“ The will of God, my boy.” 

“ But how is a person to know that, father 

“ By trying to do what he knows of it already. Eveiy- 
body has a different kind of tune in his life, and no one 
can find out another’s tune for him, though he may help 
him to find it for himself.” 

“ But aren’t we to read the Bible, father?” 

“ Yes, if it’s in order to obey it. To read the Bible 
thinking to please God by the mere reading of it is to 
think like a heathen.” 

“ And aren’t we to say our prayers, father.?” 

“ We are to ask God for what we want. If we don’t 
want a thing, we are only acting like pagans to speak 
as if we did, and call it prayer and think we are pleas- 
ing him.” 

I was silent. My father resumed : 

“ I fancy the old man we are going to see found out 
the tune of his life long ago.” 

“ Is he a very wise man then, father r” 

“ That depends on what you mean by wise. I should 
call him a wise man, for to find out that tune is the 
truest wisdom. But he’s not a learned man at all. I 
doubt if he ever read a book but the Bible, except per- 
haps the ‘ Pilgrim’s Progress.’ I believe he has always 


204 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOTHOOD. 

been very fond of that. lou like that, don*t you 
Ranald.?” 

“ I’ve read it a good many times, father. But I was 
a little tired of it before I got through it last time.” 

“ But you did read it through, did you .? — the last 
time, I mean.” 

“ Oh yes, father. I never like to leave the loose end 
of a thing hanging about.” 

“ That’s right, my boy ; that’s right. Well, I think 
you’d better not open the book again for a long time — 
say twenty years at least. It’s a great deal too good a 
book to let yourself get tired of. By that time I trust 
you will be able to understand it a great deal better 
than you can at present.” 

I felt a little sorry that I was not to look at the “ Pil- 
grim’s Progress” for twenty years, but I am very glad 
of it now. 

“We must not spoil good books by reading them 
too much,” my father added. “ It is often better to 
think about them than to read them ; and it is best 
never to do either when we are tired of them. We 
should get tired of the sunlight itself, beautiful as it is, 
if God did not send it away every night. We’re not 
even fit to have moonlight always. The moon is buried 
in the darkness every month. And because we can 
bear nothing for any length of time together, we are 
sent to sleep every night that we may begin fresh again 
in the morning.” 

“ I see, father, I see,” I answered. 

We talked on until we came in sight of John Jamie- 
son’s cottage. 

What a poor place it was to look at ! — built of clay, 
which had hardened in the sun till it wrs just one 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 205 

brick. But it was a better place to live in than it 
looked, for no wind could come through the walls, 
although there was plenty of wind about. Three little 
windows looked eastward to the rising sun, and one to 
the south ; it had no more. It stood on the side of a 
heathy hill, which rose up steep behind it, and bend- 
ing round, sheltered it from the north. A low wall of 
loose stones enclosed a small garden, reclaimed from 
the hill, where grew some greens and cabbages and 
potatoes, with a flower here and there between. In 
summer it was pleasant enough, for the warm sun 
makes any place pleasant. But in winter it must have 
been a cold, dreary place indeed. There was no other 
house within sight of it. A little brook went canter- 
ing down the hill close to the end of the cottage, sing- 
ing merrily. 

“ It is a long way to the sea, but by its very nature 
the water will find it at last,” said my father, pointing 
to the stream as we crossed it by the single stone that 
was its bridge. 

He had to bend his head low to enter the cottage. 
An old woman, the sick man’s wife, rose from the side 
of the chimney to greet us. My father asked how John 
was. 

“ Wearing away,” was her answer. “ But he’ll be 
glad to see you.” 

We turned in the direction in which her eyes guided 
us. The first thing I saw was a small withered-look- 
ing head, and the next a withered-looking hand, large 
and bony. The old man lay in a bed closed in with 
boards, so that very little light fell upon him ; but his 
hair glistened silvery through the gloom. My fathei 
drew a chair beside him. looked up, and seeing 

18 


2o6 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

who it was, feebly held out his hand. My father took 
it and stroked it, and said : 

“Well, John, my man, youVe had a hard life of it.” 

“No harder than I could bear,” said John. 

“ It’s a grand thing to be able to say that,” said my 
father. 

“ Oh, sir, for that matter, I would go through it all 
again, if it was His will, and willingly. I have no will 
but his, sir.” 

*‘Well, John, I wish we could all say the same. 
When a man comes to that, the Lord lets him have 
what he wants. What do you want now, John ?” 

“ To depart and be with the Lord. It wouldn’t be 
true, sir, to say that I wasn’t weary. It seems to me, 
if it’s the Lord’s will. I’ve had enough of this life. 
Even if death be a long sleep, as some people say, till 
the judgment, I think I would rather sleep, for I’m 
very weary. Only there’s the old woman there ! I 
lon’t like leaving her.” 

“ But you can trust God for her too, can’t you i^” 

“ It would be a poor thing if I couldn’t, sir.” 

“Were you ever hungry, John.? — dreadfully hungry, 
I mean?” 

“ Never longer than I could bear,” he answered. 
“ When you think it’s the will of God, hunger doesn’t 
get much hold of you, sir.” 

“You must excuse me, John, for asking so many 
questions. You know God better than I do, and I 
want my young man here to know how strong the will 
of God makes a man, old or young. He needn’t care 
about anything else, need he?” 

“ There’s nothing else to care about, sir. If only the 
will of God be done, everything’s all right, you know. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 207 

I do believe, sir, God cares more for me than my old 
woman herself does, and she’s been as good a wife to 
me as ever was. Young gentleman, you know who 
says that God numbers the very hairs of our heads 
There’s not many of mine left to number,” he added, 
with a faint smile, “ but there’s plenty of yours. You 
mind the will of God, and he’ll look after you. That’s 
the way he divides the business of life.” 

I saw now that my father’s talk as we came had 
been with a view to prepare me for what John Jamieson 
would say. I cannot pretend, however, to have under- 
stood the old man at the time, but his words have often 
come back to me since, and helped me through trials 
pretty severe, although, like the old man, I have never 
found any of them too hard to bear. 

“ Have you no child to come and help your wife to 
wait upon you ?” my father asked. 

“ I have had ten, sir, but only three are left alive. 
There’ll be plenty to welcome me home when I go. 
One of the three’s in Canada, and can’t come. An- 
other’s in Australia, and he can’t come. But Maggie’s 
not far off, and she’s got leave from her mistress to 
come for a week j only we don’t want her to come till 
I’m nearer my end. I should like her to see tUw last of 
her old father, for I shall be young again by the next 
time she sees me, please God, sir. He’s all in all 
isn’t he, sir.?” 

“ True, John. If we have God we have all things, 
for all things are his and we are his. But we mustn’t 
w'eary you too much. Thank you for your good ad- 
vice.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir ; I had no intention of speak- 
ing like that. I never could give advice in all my life 


2o8 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


I always found it was as much as I could do to take 
the good advice that was given to me. I should like to 
be prayed for in the church next Sunday, sir, if you 
please.” 

“ But can’t you pray for yourself, John 

“ Yes, sir ; but I would like to have some spiritual 
gift because my friends asked it for me. Let them 
pray for more faith for me. I want more and more of 
that. The more you have, the more you want. Don’t 
you, sir.? And I mightn’t ask enough for myself, now 
I’m so old and so tired. I sleep a great deal, sir.” 

“ Then don’t you think God will take care to give 
you enough, even if you shouldn’t ask for enough.?” 
said my father. 

“No doubt of that. But you see I am able to think 
of it now, and so I must put things in a train for the 
time when I sha’n’t be able to think of it.” 

Something like this was what John said ; and al- 
though I could not understand it then, my father spoke 
to me several times about it afterward, and I came to 
see how the old man wanted to provide against the evil 
time by starting prayers heavenward beforehand, as it 
were. 

My fathei prayed by his bedside, pulled a parcel or 
two from his pocket for his wife, and then we walked 
home together in silence. My father was not the man 
to heap words upon words and so smother the thought 
that lay in them. He had taken me for the sake of the 
lesson I might receive, and he left it to strike root in 
my mind, which he judged more likely if it remained 
undisturbed. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 209 


CHAPTER XXVII. 
turkey’s trick. 

W HEN we came to the farm on our way home, 
we looked in to see Kirsty, but found the key 
in the door, indicating that she had gone out. As we 
left the yard we saw a strange-looking woman, to all 
appearance a beggar, approaching. She had a wallet 
over her shoulder, and walked stooping with her eyes 
on the ground, nor lifted them to greet us— behavior 
which rarely showed itself in our parish. My father 
took no notice, but I could not help turning to look 
after the woman. To my surprise she stood looking 
after us, but the moment I turned she turned also and 
walked on. When I looked again she had vanished. 
Of course she must have gone into the farm-yard. Not 
liking the look of her, and remembering that Kirsty 
was out, I asked my father whether I had not better see 
if any of the men were about the stable. He approved, 
and I ran back to the house. The door was still 
locked. I called Turkey, and heard his voice in reply 
from one of the farthest of the cow-houses. When I 
had reached it and told him my story, he asked if my 
father knew I had come back. When he heard that 
he did know, he threw down his pitchfork and hastened 
with me. We searched every house about the place, 
but could find no sign whatever of the woman. 

“Are you sure it wasn’t all a fancy of your own, 
Ranald.?” said Turkey. 

“ Quite sure. Ask my father. She passed as near 
us as you are to me now.” 

Turkey hurried away to search the hayloft once 
18 ♦ 


210 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 

more, but without success ; and at last I heard my 
father calling me. 

I ran to him and told him there was no woman to be 
seen. 

“ That’s odd,” he said. “ She must have passed 
straight through the yard and got out at the other side 
before you went in. While you were looking for her 
she was plodding away out of sight. Come along and 
let us have our tea.” 

I could not feel quite satisfied about it, but, as there 
was no other explanation, I persuaded myself that my 
father was right. 

The next Saturday evening I was in the nursery with 
my brothers. It was growing dusk, when I heard a 
knocjcing. Mrs. Mitchell did not seem to hear it, so I 
went and opened the door. There was the same beg- 
garrwoman. Rather frightened, I called aloud and 
Mrs. Mitchell came. When she saw it was a beggar, 
she went back and reappeared with a wooden basin 
filled with m.eal, from which she took a handful as she 
came in apparent preparation for dropping it, in the cus- 
tomary way, into the woman’s bag. The woman never 
spoke, but closed the mouth of her wallet and turned 
away. Curiosity gave me courage to follow her. She 
walked with long strides in the direction of the farm, 
and I kept at a little distance behind her. She made 
for the yard. She should not escape me this time. As 
soon as she entered it, I ran as fast as I could, and just 
caught sight of her back as she went into one of the 
cow-houses. I darted after her. She turned round 
upon me, fiercely I thought, but judge my surprise 
when she held out the open mouth of the bag toward 
me and said : 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 211 

“ Not one grain, Ranald ! Put in your hand and 
feel.” 

It was Turkey. 

I stared in amazement, unable for a time to get rid 
of the apparition and see the reality. Turkey burst out 
laughing at my perplexed countenance. 

“Why didn’t you tell me before, Turkey?” I asked, 
able at length to join in the laugh. 

“ Because then you would have had to tell your 
father, and I did not want him to be troubled about it, 
at least before we had got things clear. I always did 
wonder how he could keep such a creature about 
him.” 

“ He doesn’t know her as we do, Turkey.” 

“ No. She never gives him the chance. But now, 
Ranald, couldn’t you manage to find out whether she 
makes any store of the meal she pretends to give away.?” 

A thought struck me. 

“ I heard Davie the other day asking her why she 
had two meal-tubs : perhaps that has something to do 
with it.” 

“You must find out. Don’t ask Davie. 

For the first time it occurred to me that the Kelpie 
had upon that night of terror been out on business of 
her own, and had not been looking for me at all. 

“ Then she was down at old Betty’s cottage,” said 
Turkey, when I communicated the suspicion, “ and 
Wandering Willie was there too, and Andrew was 
right about the pipes. Willie hasn’t been once to the 
house ever since he took Davie, but she has gone to 
meet him at Betty’s. Depend on it, Ranald, he’s her 
brother, or nephew, or something, as I used to say. 
I do believe she gives him the meal to take home to 


212 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


her family somewhere. Did you ever hear anything 
about h^* friends ?” 

“ I never heard her speak of any.” 

“ Then I don’t believe they’re respectable. I don’t, 
Ranald. But it will be a great trouble to the minister 
to have to turn her away. I wonder if we couldn’t 
contrive to make her go of herself. I wish we could 
scare her out of the country. It’s not nice, either, for a 
woman like that to have to do with such innocents as 
Allister and Davie.” 

“ She’s very fond of Davie.” 

“ So she is. That’s the only good thing I know of 
her. But nold your tongue, Ranald, till we find out 
more.” 

Acting on the hint Davie had given me, I soon dis- 
covered the second meal-tub. It was small and care- 
fully stowed away. It was now nearly full, and every 
day I watched in the hope that when she emptied it I 
should be able to find out what she did with the meal. 
But Turkey’s suggestion about frightening her away 
kept working in my brain. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

I SCHEME TOO. 

I BEGAN a series of persecutions oi the Kelpie on 
my own account. I was doubtful whether Turkey 
would approve of them, so I did not tell him for some 
time ; but I was ambitious of showing him that I could 
do something without him. I doubt whether it is 
worth while to relate the silly tricks I played her— my 
father made me sorry enougli for them afterward. My 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 213 

only excuse for them is, that I hoped by them to drive 
the Kelpie away. 

There was a closet in the hall, the floor of which 
was directly over the Kelpie’s bed, with no ceiling be- 
tween. With a gimlet I bored a hole in the floor, 
through which I passed a piece of string. I had already 
got a bit of black cloth, and sewed and stuffed it into 
something of the shape of a rat. Watching an oppor- 
tunity, I tied this to the end of the string by the head, 
and hid it under her bolster. When she was going to 
bed, I went into the closet, and, laying my mouth to 
the floor, began squeaking like a rat and scratching 
with my nails. Knowing by the exclamation she made 
that I had attracted her attention, I tugged at the string ; 
this lifted the bolster a little, and of course out came 
my rat. I heard her scream and open her door. I 
pulled the rat up tight to the ceiling. Then the door 
of the nursery, where we slept only in the winter, 
opened and shut, and I concluded she had gone to bed 
there to avoid the rat. I could hardly sleep for pleas- 
ure at my success. 

As she waited on us at breakfast next morning she 
told my father that she had seen in her bed the biggest 
rat she ever saw in her life, and had not had a wink of 
sleep in consequence. 

“ Well,” said my father, “ that comes of not liking 
cats. You should get a pussy to take care of you.” 

She grumbled something and retired. 

She removed her quarters to the nursery. But there 
it was yet easier for me to plague her. Having ob- 
served in which hed she lay, I passed the string with 
the rat at the end of it over the middle of a har that ran 
across just above her head, then took the string along 


314 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 


the top of the other bed, and through a little hole in 
the door. As soon as I judged her safe in bed, I 
dropped the rat with a plump. It must have fallen on 
or very near her face. I heard her give a loud cry, 
but before she could reach the door I had fastened the 
string to a nail and got out of the way. 

It was not so easy in those days to get a light, for the 
earliest form of lucifer match was only just making its 
appearance in that part of the country, and was very 
dear ; she had to go to the kitchen, where the fire never 
went out summer or winter. Afraid lest on her return 
she should search the bed, find my harmless animal 
suspended by the neck, and descend upon me with all 
the wrath generated of needless terror, I crept into the 
room, got down my rat, pulled away the string and 
escaped. The next morning she said nothing about 
the rat, but went to a neighbor’s and brought home a 
fine cat. I laughed in my sleeve, thinking how little 
her cat could protect her from my rat. 

Once more, however, she changed her quarters, and 
went into a sort of inferior spare-room in the upper part 
of the house, which suited my operations still better, 
for from my own bed I could now manage to drop and 
pull up the rat, drawing it away beyond the danger of 
discovery. The next night she took the cat into the 
room with her, and for that one I judged it prudent to 
leave her alone ; but the next, having secured Kirstv’s 
cat, I turned him into the room after she had got 
into bed : the result was a frightful explosion of feline 
wrath. 

I now thought I might boast of my successes to 
Turkey, but he was not pleased. 

“ She is sure to find you out, Ranald,” he said, “ and 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 215 


then whatever else we do will be a failure. Leave her 
alone till we have her quite.” 

I do not care to linger over this part of my story. I 
am a little ashamed of it. 

We found at length that her private reservoir was 
quite full of meal. I kept close watch still, and finding 
one night that she was not in the house, discovered also 
that the meal-tub was now empty. I ran to Turkey, and 
together we hurried to Betty’s cottage. 

It was a cloudy night, with glimpses of moonlight. 
When we reached the place we heard voices talking, 
and were satisfied that both the Kelpie and Wandering 
Willie were there. 

“ We must wait till she comes out,” said Turkey. 
“ We must be able to say we saw her.” 

There was a great stone standing out of the ground 
not far from the door, just opposite the elder tree, and 
the path lay between them. 

“ You get behind that tree— no, you are the smaller 
object — you get behind that stone, and 1 11 get behind 
the tree,” said Turkey ; “ and when the Kelpie comes 
out, you make a noise like a beast and rush at her on 
all-fours.” 

“ I’m good at a pig, Turkey,” I said. “ Will a pig 
do?” 

“Yes, well enough.” 

“ But what if she should know me, and catch me, 
Turkey ?” 

“ She will start away from you to my side ; 1 
shall rush out like a mad dog, and then she 11 run 
for it.” 

We waited a long time— a very long time it seemed 
to me. It was well it was summer. We talked a little 


3 i 6 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

across, and that helped to beguile the weary time ; but 
at last I said in a whisper : 

“Let’s go home, Turkey, and lock the doors, and 
keep her out.” 

“You go home, then, Ranald, and I’ll wait. I don’t 
mind if it be till to-morrow morning. It is not enough 
to be sure ourselves ; we must be able to make other 
people sure.” 

“ I’ll wait as long as you do, Turkey ; only I’m very 
sleepy, and she might come out when I was asleep.” 

“ Oh, I shall keep you awake !” replied Turkey ; 
and we settled down again for a while. 

At the long last the latch of the door was lifted. I 
was just falling asleep, but the sound brought me wide 
awake at once. I peeped from behind my shelter. It 
was the Kelpie, with an empty bag — a pillow-case, I 
believe — in her hand. Behind her came Wandering 
Willie, but did not follow her from the door. The 
moment was favorable, for the moon was under a thick 
cloud. Just as she reached the stone, I rushed out on 
hands and knees, grunting and squeaking like a very 
wild pig indeed. As Turkey had foretold, she darted 
aside, and I retreated behind my stone. The same in- 
stant Turkey rushed at her with such canine fury that 
the imitation startled even me, who had expected it. 
You would have thought the animal was ready to tear 
a whole army to pieces, with such a complication of 
fierce growls and barks and squeals did he dart on the 
unfortunate culprit. She took to her heels at once, not 
daring to make for the cottage, because the enemy was 
behind her. But I had hardly ensconced myself be- 
hind the stone, repressing my laughter with all my 
might, when I was seized from behind by Wandering 



“ Just as she reached the stone, I rushed out on hands and knees.’ 

I*age 216. 


K 


19 


217 



RANALD BANNBRMAN^S BOYHOOD. 219 


Willie, who had no fear either of pig or dog. He be- 
gan pommeling me. 

“ Turkey ! Turkey !” I cried. 

The cry stopped his barking pursuit of the Kelpie. 
He rose to his feet and rushed to my aid. But when 
he saw the state of affairs, he turned at once for the 
cottage, crying, 

“ Now for a kick at the bagpipes !” 

Wandering Willie was not too much a fool to re- 
member and understand. He left me instantly, and 
made for the cottage. Turkey drew back and let him 
enter, then closed the door and held it. 

“ Get away a bit, Ranald. I can run faster than 
Willie. You’ll be out of sight in a few yards.” 

But instead of coming after us. Wandering Willie 
began playing a most triumphant tune upon his darling 
bagpipes. How the poor old woman enjoyed it I do 
not know. Perhaps she liked it. For us, we set off 
to outstrip the Kelpie. It did not matter to Turkey, 
but she might lock me out again. I was almost in bed 
before I heard her come in. She went straight to her 
own room. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

A DOUBLE EXPOSURE. 

W HETHER the Kelpie had recognized us I could 
not tell, but not much of the next morning 
passed before my doubt was over. When she had set 
our porridge on the table, she stood up, and, with her 
fists in her sides, addressed my father : 

“I’m very sorry, sir, to have to make complaints. 


220 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

It*s a thing I don’t like, and I’m not given to. I’m sure 
I try to do my duty by Master Ranald as well as every 
one else in this house.” 

I felt a little confused, for I now saw clearly enough 
that my father could not approve of our proceedings. 
I whispered to Allister — 

“ Run and fetch Turkey. Tell him to come directly.” 

Allister always did whatever I asked him. He set 
off at once. The Kelpie looked suspicious as he left 
the room, but she had no pretext for interference. I 
allowed her to tell her tale without interruption. After 
relating exactly how we had served her the night be- 
fore, when she had gone on a visit of mercy, as she 
represented it, she accused me of all my former tricks — 
that of the cat having, I presume, enlightened her as 
to the others; and ended by saying that if she were 
not protected against me and Turkey, she must leave 
the place. 

“ Let her go, father,” I said. “ None of us like 
her.” 

“ I like her,” whimpered little Davie. 

“ Silence, sir !” said my father, very sternly. “ Are 
these things true T' 

“ Yes, father,” I answered. “ But please hear what 
Pve got to say. She’s only told you her side of it.” 

“You have confessed to the truth of what she al- 
leges,” said my father. “I did think,” he went on, 
more in sorrow than in anger, though a good -deal in 
both, “ that you had turned from your bad ways. To 
think of my taking you with me to the deathbed of a 
holy man, and then finding you so soon after playing 
such tricks ! — more like the mischievousness of a 
monkey than of a human being !” 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 221 

“ I don’t say it was right, father ; and I’m very sorry 
if I have offended you.” 

“You have offended me, and very deeply. You 
have been unkind and indeed cruel to a good woman 
who has done her best for you for many years.” 

I was not too much abashed to take notice that the 
Kelpie bridled at this. 

“ I can’t say I’m sorry for what I’ve done to her,” 

I said. 

“ Really, Ranald, you are impertinent. I would send 
you out of the room at once, but you must beg Mrs. 
Mitchell’s pardon first, and after that there will be 
something more to say, I fear.” 

“ But, father, you have not heard my story yet.” 
iiWell — go on. It is fair, I suppose, to hear both 
sides. But nothing can justify such conduct.” 

I began with trembling voice. I had gone over in 
my mind the night before all I would say, knowing 
it better to tell the tale from the beginning circum- 
stantially. Before I had ended, Turkey made his ap- 
pearance, ushered in by Allister. Both were out of 
breath with running. 

My father stopped me, and ordered Turkey away 
until I should have finished. I ventured to look up at 
the Kelpie once or twice. She had grown white, and 
grew whiter. When Turkey left the room she would 
have gone too. But my father told her she must stay 
and hear me to the end. Several times she broke out, 
accusing me of telling a pack of wicked lies, but my 
father told her she should have an opportunity of de- 
coding herself, and she must not interrupt me. When 
I had done he called Turkey, and made him tell the 
story. I need hardly say that, although he questioned 


222 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

us closely, he found no discrepancy between our ac- 
counts. He turned at last to Mrs. Mitchell, who, but 
for her rage, would have been in an abject condition. 

“ Now, Mrs. Mitchell,” he said. 

She had nothing to reply beyond asserting that 
Turkey and I had always hated and persecuted her, 
and had now told a pack of lies which we had agreed 
upon, to ruin her, a poor lone woman, with no friends 
to take her part. 

I do not think it likely they could be so wicked,’* 
said my father. 

“ So I’m to be the only wicked person in the world ! 
Very well, sir. I will leave the house this very day,” 

“ No, no, Mrs. Mitchell ; that won’t do. One party 
or the other is very wicked— that is clear ; and it is of 
the greatest consequence to me to find out which. If 
you go, I shall know it is you, and have you taken up 
and tried for stealing. Meantime, I shall go the round 
of the parish. I do not think all the poor people will 
have combined to lie against you.” 

“ They all hate me,” said the Kelpie. 

“And why.?” asked my father. 

She made no answer. 

“I must get at the truth of it,” said my father. 
“You can go now.” 

She left the room without another word, and my 
father turned to Turkey : ^ 

“ I am surprised at you, Turkey, lending yourself to 
such silly pranks. Why did you not come and tell 
me ?” 

“ I am very sorry, sir. I was afraid you would be 
troubled at finding how wicked she was, and I thought 
we might frighten her away somehow. But Ranald 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 223 

began his tricks without letting me know, and then I 
saw that mine could be of no use, for she would sus- 
pect them after his. Mine would have been better, 
sir.” 

“ I have no doubt of it, but equally unjustifiable. 
And you as well as he acted the part of a four-footed 
animal last night.” 

“ I confess I yielded to temptation then, for I knew 
it could do no good. It was all for the pleasure of 
frightening her. It was very foolish of me, and I beg 
your pardon, sir.” 

“Well, Turkey, I confess you have vexed me, not 
by trying to find out the wrong she was doing me and 
the whole parish, but by taking the whole thing into 
your own hands. It is worse of you, inasmuch as you 
are older and far wiser than Ranald. It is worse of 
Ranald, because I was his father. I will try to show 
you the wrong you have done. Had you told me, 
without doing anything yourselves, then I might have 
succeeded in bringing Mrs. Mitchell to repentance. I 
could have reasoned with her on the matter, and shown 
her that she was not merely a thief, but a thief of the 
worst kind — a Judas who robbed the poor, and so robbed 
God. I could have shown her how cruel she was — ” 

“ Please, sir,” interrupted Turkey, “ I don’t think, 
after all, she did it for herself. I do believe,” he went 
on, and my father listened, “that Wandering Willie is 
some relation of hers. He is the only poor person, 
almost the only person except Davie, I ever saw her 
behave kindly to. He was there last night, and also, I 
fancy, that other time when Ranald got such a fright. 
She has poor relations somewhere, and sends the meal 
to them by Willie. You remember, sir, there were no 


224 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


old clothes of Allister’s to be found when you wanted 
them for Jamie Duff.” 

“You may be right, Turkey — I dare say you are 
right. I hope you are, for, though bad enough, that 
would not be quite so bad as doing it for herself.” 

“ I am very sorry, father,” 1 said ; “ I beg your 
pardon.” 

“ I hope it will be a lesson to you, my boy. After 
what you have done, rousing every bad and angry 
passion in her, I fear it will be of no use to try to 
make her be sorry and repent. It is to her, not to me, 
you have done the wrong. I have nothing to complain 
of for myself — quite the contrary. But it is a very 
dreadful thing to throw difficulties in the way of re- 
pentance and turning from evil works.” 

“ What can I do to make up for it?” I sobbed. 

“ I don’t see at this moment what you can do. I will 
turn it over in my mind. You may go now.” 

Thereupon Turkey and I walked away — I to school, 
he to his cattle. The lecture my father had given us 
was not to be forgotten. Turkey looked sad, and I felt 
subdued and concerned. 

Everything my father heard confirmed the tale we 
had told him. But the Kelpie frustrated whatever he 
may have resolved upon with regard to her : before he 
returned she had disappeared. How she managed to 
get her chest away 1 cannot tell. I think she must 
have hid it in some outhouse and fetched it the next 
night. Many little things were missed from the house 
afterward, but nothing of great value, and neither she 
nor Wandering Willie ever appeared again. We were 
all satisfied that poor old Betty knew nothing of her 
conduct. It was easy enough to deceive her, for she 


RANALD BANNBRMAN^S BOYHOOD. 225 

was alone in her cottage, only waited upon by a neigh- 
bor, who visited her at certain times of the day. 

My father, I heard afterward, gave five shillings out 
of his own pocket to every one of the poor people 
whom the Kelpie had defrauded. Her place in the 
house was, to our endless happiness, taken by Kirsty, 
and faithfully she carried out my father’s instructions 
that, along with the sacred handful of meal, a penny 
should be given to every one of the parish poor from 
that time forward, so long as he lived at the manse. 

Not even little Davie cried when he found that Mrs. 
Mitchell was really gone. It was more his own affec- 
tion than her kindness that had attached him to her. 

Thus were we at last delivered from our Kelpie. 



CHAPTER XXX. 


TRIBULATION. 



FTER the expulsion 
of the Kelpie and 
the accession of 
Kirsty, things went 
on so peaceably 
that the whole time 
rests in my memory 
like a summer eve- 
ning after sundown. 
I have therefore little 
more to say concern- 
ing our home-life. 

There were two 
schools in the little 
town — the first, the 
parish school, the 
master of which was 
appointed by the 
presbytery; the sec- 
ond, one chiefly up- 
held by the dissent- 
ers of the place, the master of which was appointed by 
the parents of the scholars. This difference, however, 
indicated very little of the distinction and separation 
which it would have involved in England. The mas- 




RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 227 

ters of both were licentiates of the Established Church, 
an order having a vague resemblance to that of deacons 
in the English Church ; there were at both of them 
scholars whose fees were paid by the parish, while 
others at both were preparing for the university ; there 
were many pupils at the second school whose parents 
took to the Established Church on Sundays, and both 
were yearly examined by the presbytery — that is, the 
clergymen of a certain district ; while my father was on 
friendly terms with all the parents, some of whom did 
not come to his church because they thought the ex- 
penses of religion should be met by the offerings of 
those who prized its ministrations, while others re- 
garded the unity of the nation, and thought that relig- 
ion, like any other of its necessities, ought to be the 
care of its chosen government. I do not think the 
second school would ever have come into existence at 
all except for the requirements of the population, one 
school being insufficient. There was little real schism 
in the matter, except between the boys themselves. 
They made far more of it than their parents, and an 
occasional outbreak was the consequence. 

At this time there was at the second school a certain 
very rough lad, the least developed beyond the brute, 
perhaps, of all the scholars of the village. It is more 
amazing to see how close to the brute a man may re- 
main than it is to see how far he may leave the brute 
behind. How it began I cannot recall ; but this youth, 
a lad of seventeen, whether moved by dislike or the 
mere fascination of injury, was in the habit of teasing 
me beyond the verge of endurance as often as he had 
the chance. I did not like to complain to my father, 
though that would have been better than to hate him as 


228 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

I did. I was ashamed of my own impotence for self- 
defence, but therein I was little to blame, for I was 
not more than half his size, and certainly had not half 
his strength. My pride forbidding flight, the prob- 
ability was, when we met in an out-of-the-way quarter, 
that he would block my path for half an hour at least, 
pull my hair, pinch my cheeks, and do everything to 
annoy me, short of leaving marks of violence upon me. 
If we met in a street, or other people were in sight, he 
would pass me with a wink and a grin, as much as to 
say — Wait. 

One of the short but fierce wars between the rival 
schools broke out. What originated the individual quar- 
rel I cannot tell. I doubt if any one knew. It had not en- 
dured a day, however, before it came to a pitched battle 
after school hours. The second school was considerably 
the smaller, but it had the advantage of being perched on 
the top of the low, steep hill at the bottom of which lay 
ours. Our battles always began with missiles ; and I 
wonder, as often as I recall the fact, that so few serious 
accidents were the consequence. From the disadvan- 
tages of the ground we had little chance against the 
stone showers which descended upon us like hail, ex- 
cept we charged right up the hill, in the face of the in- 
ferior but well-posted enemy. When this was not in 
favor at the moment, I employed myself in collecting 
stones and supplying them to my companions, for it 
seemed to me that every boy, down to the smallest in 
cither school, was skillful in throwing them except my- 
self: I could not throw half-way up the hill. On this 
occasion, however, I began to fancy it an unworthy ex- 
ercise of my fighting powers, and made my first attempt 
at organizing a troop for an up-hill charge. I was now 


RANALD BANNERMANS BOYHOOD. 229 


a tall boy, and had some influence amongst those about 
my own age. Whether the enemy saw our intent and 
proceeded to forestall it, I cannot say, but certainly that 
charge never took place. 

A house of some importance was then building just 
on the top of the hill, and a sort of hand-wagon, or lurry 
on low wheels, was in use for moving the large stones 
employed, the chips from the dressing of which were 
then for us most formidable missiles. Our adversaries 
laid hold of this chariot, and turned it into an engine 
of war. They dragged it to the top of the hill, jumped 
upon it, as many as it would hold, and, drawn by their 
own weight, came thundering down upon our troops. 
Vain was the storm of stones which assailed their ad- 
vance ; they could not have stopped if they would. 
My company had to open and make way for the ad- 
vancing prodigy, conspicuous upon which towered my 
personal enemy Scroggie. 

“ Now,” I called to my men, “ as soon as the thing 
stops, rush in and seize them: they’re not half our 
number. It will be an endless disgrace to let them 
go.” 

Whether we should have had the courage to carry 
out the design had not fortune favored us, I cannot 
tell. But as soon as the chariot reached a part of the 
hill where the slope was less, it turned a little to one 
side, and Scroggie fell off, drawing half of the load 
after him. My men rushed in with shouts of defiant 
onset, but were arrested by the non-resistance of the 
foe. I sprung to seize Scroggie. He tried to get up, 
but fell back with a groan. The moment I saw his 
face my mood changed. My hatred, without will or 
wish or eflbrt of mine, turned all at once into pity or 
20 


230 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

something better. In a moment I was down on my 
knees beside him. His face was white, and drops 
stood upon his forehead. He lay half upon his side, 
and with one hand he scooped handfuls of dirt from 
the road and threw them down again. His leg was 
broken. I got him to lean his head against me, and 
tried to make him lie more comfortably ; but the mo- 
ment I sought to move the leg he shrieked out. I sent 
one of our swiftest runners for the doctor, and in the 
mean time did the best I could for him. He took it as 
a matter of course, and did not even thank me. When 
the doctor came, we got a mattress from a neighboring 
house, laid it on the wagon, lifted Scroggie on the top, 
and dragged him up the hill and home to his mother. 

I have said a little, but only a little, concerning our 
master, Mr. Wilson. At the last examination I had, 
in compliance with the request of one of the clergy- 
men, read aloud a metrical composition of my own, 
sent in by way of essay on the given subject. Patriot- 
ism., and after this he had shown me a great increase 
of favor. Perhaps he recognized in me some germ of 
a literary faculty — I cannot tell : it has never come to 
much if he did, and he must be greatly disappointed in 
me, seeing I labor not in living words, but in dead 
stones. I am certain, though, that whether I build 
good or bad houses, I should have built worse had I 
not had the insight he gave me into literature and the 
nature of literary utterance. I read Virgil and Horace 
with him, and scanned every doubtful line we came 
across. I sometimes think now that what certain 
successful men want to make them real artists is 
simply a knowledge of the literature — which is the 
essence of the possible art — of the country. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 231 

My brother Tom had left the school, and gone to the 
county town to receive some final preparations for the 
university ; consequently, so far as the school was con- 
cerned, I was no longer in the position of a younger 
brother. Also, Mr. Wilson had discovered that I had 
some faculty for imparting what knowledge I possessed, 
and had begun to make use of me in teaching the 
others. A good deal was done in this way in the 
Scotch schools. Not that there was the least attempt 
at system in it: the master, at any moment, would 
choose the one he thought fit, and set him to teach a 
class, while he attended to individuals or taught an- 
other class himself. Nothing can be better for the 
verification of knowledge or for the discoveiy of ignor- 
ance than the attempt to teach. In my case it led to 
other and unforeseen results as well. 

The increasing trust the master reposed in me, and 
the increasing favor which openly accompanied it, so 
stimulated the growth of my natural vanity that at 
length it appeared in the form of presumption, and, I 
have little doubt, although I was unaware of it at the 
time, influenced my whole behavior to my school- 
fellows. Hence arose the complaint that I was a favor- 
ite with the master, and the accusation that I used un- 
derhand means to necommend myself to him, of which 
I am not yet aware that I was ever guilty. My pre- 
sumption I confess, and wonder that the master did not 
take earlier measures to check it. When teaching a 
class I would not unfrequently, if Mr. Wilson had va- 
cated his chair, climb into it and sit there as if I were 
the master of the school. I even went so far as to 
deposit some of my books in the master’s desk, instead 
• of putting them in my own recess. But I had not the 


232 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


least suspicion of the indignation I was thus rousing 
against me. 

One afternoon I had a class of history. They read 
very badly, with what seemed willful blundering ; but 
when it came to the questioning on the subject of the 
lesson, I soon saw there had been a conspiracy. The 
answers they gave were invariably wrong, generally 
absurd, sometimes utterly grotesque. I ought to ex- 
cept those of a few girls who did their best, and appar- 
ently knew nothing of the design of the others. One 
or two girls, however, infected with the spirit of the 
game, soon outdid the whole class in the wildness of 
their replies. This at last got the better of me ; I lost 
my temper, threw down my book and retired to my 
seat, leaving the class where it stood. The master 
called me and asked the reason. I told him the truth 
of the matter. He got very angry, and called out 
several of the bigger boys and punished them severely. 
Whether these supposed that I had mentioned them in 
particular, as I had not, I do not know, but I could 
read in their faces that they vowed vengeance in their 
hearts. When the school broke up, I lingered to the 
last in the hope they would all go home as usual ; but 
when I came out with the master and saw the silent 
waiting groups, it was evident there was more thunder 
in the moral atmosphere than would admit of easy dis- 
charge. The master had come to the same conclusion, 
for instead of turning toward his own house he walked 
with me part of the way home, without alluding, how- 
ever, to the reason. Allister was with us, and I led 
Davie by the hand : it was his first week of school-life. 
When we had got about half the distance, believing 
me now quite safe, he turned into a footpath and went 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 233 


through the fields back toward the town, while we, 
delivered from all immediate apprehension, jogged 
homeward. 

When we had gone some distance farther I hap- 
pened to look about — why, I could not tell. A crowd 
was following us at full speed. As soon as they saw 
that we had discovered them, they broke the silence 
with a shout, which was followed by the patter of their 
many footsteps. 

“ Run, Allister !” I cried ; and kneeling, I caught up 
Davie on my back and ran with the feet of fear. Bur- 
dened thus, Allister was soon far ahead of me. 

“Bring Turkey!’* I cried after him. “Run to the 
farm as hard as you can pelt, and bring Turkey to 
meet us.” 

“Yes, yes, Ranald,” shouted Allister, and ran yet 
faster. 

They were not getting up with us quite so fast as 
they wished ; they began therefore to pick up stones as 
they ran, and we soon heard them hailing on the road 
behind us. A little farther, and the stones began to go 
bounding past us, so that I dared no longer carry Davie 
on my back. I had to stop, which lost us time, and to 
shift him into my arms, which made running much 
harder. Davie kept calling, “ Run, Ranald ! here they 
come I” and jumping so, half in fear, half in pleasure, 
that I found it very hard work indeed. 

Their taunting voices reached me at length, loaded 
with all sorts of reviling and opprobrious words — some 
of them, I dare say, deserved, but not all. Next a stone 
struck me, but not in a dangerous place, though it crip- 
pled my running still more. The bridge was now in 
sight, however, and there I could get rid of Davie and 


234 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


turn at bay, for it was a small wooden bridge, with 
rails and a narrow gate at the end to keep horsemen 
from riding over it. The foremost of our pursuers were 
within a few yards of my heels, when, with a last effort, 
I bounded on it ; and I had just time to set Davie down 
and turn and bar their way by shutting the gate, before 
they reached it. I had no breath left but just enough 
to cry, “ Run, Davie !” Davie, however, had no notion 
of the state of affairs, and did not run, but stood behind 
me staring. So I was not much better off yet. If he 
had only run, and I had seen him far enough on the 
way home, I would have taken to the water, which 
was here pretty deep, before I would have run any 
further risk of their getting hold of me. If I could have 
reached the mill on the opposite bank, a shout would 
have brought the miller to my aid. But so long as 1 
could prevent them from opening the gate, I thought I 
could hold the position. There was only a latch to 
secure it, but I pulled a thin knife from my pocket, and 
just as I received a blow in the face from the first 
arrival which knocked me backward, I had jammed it 
over the latch through the iron staple in which it 
worked. Before the first attempt to open it had been 
followed by the discovery of the obstacle, I was up, 
and the next moment, with a well-directed kick, dis- 
abled a few of the fingers which were fumbling to re- 
move it. To protect the latch was now my main ob- 
ject, but my efforts would have been quite useless, for 
twenty of them would have been over the top in an 
instant. Help, however, although unrecognized as 
such, was making its way through the ranks of the 
enemy. 

They parted asunder, and Scroggie, still lame, strode 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 235 

heavily up to the gate. Recalling nothing but his old 
enmity, I turned once more and implored Davie. ‘‘Do 
run, Davie, dear ! it’s all up,” I said ; but my entreaties 
were lost upon Davie. Turning again in despair, I 
saw the lame leg being hoisted over the gate. A shud- 
der ran through me : I could not kick that leg, but I 
sprang up and hit Scroggie hard in the face. I might 
as well have hit a block of granite. He swore at me, 
caught hold of my hand, and turning to the assailants, 
said : 

“ Now, you be off ! This is my little business. I’ll 
do for him !” 

Although they were far enough from obeying his 
orders, they were not willing to turn him into an enemy, 
and so hung back expectant. Meantime the lame leg 
was on one side of the gate, the splints of which weie 
sharpened at the points, and the sound leg was upon 
the other. I, on the one side — for he had let go my 
hand in order to support himself— retreated a little, 
and stood upon the defensive, trembling, I must con- 
fess ; while my enemies on the other side could not 
reach me so long as Scroggie was upon the top of the 
gate. 

The lame leg went searching gently about, but could 
find no rest for the sole of its foot, for there was no 
projecting cross bar upon this side ; the repose upon 
the top was anything but perfect, and the leg suspended 
behind was useless. The long and the short, both m 
legs and the results, was, that there Scroggie stuck, 
and so long as he stuck I was safe. As soon as I saw 
this, I turned and caught up Davie, thinking to make 
for home once more. But that very instant there was 
a rush at the gate; Scroggie was hoisted over, the 


236 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

knife was taken out, and on poured the assailants be- 
fore I had quite reached the other end of the bridge. 

“ At them, Oscar !” cried a* voice. 

The dog rushed past me on to the bridge, followed 
by Turkey. I set Davie down, and, holding his hand, 
breathed again. There was a scurry and a rush, a 
splash or two in the water, and then back came Oscar 
with Ais innocent tongue hanging out like a blood-red 
banner of victory. He was followed by Scroggie, who 
was exploding with laughter. 

Oscar came up wagging his tail, and looking as 
pleased as if he had restored obedience to a flock of 
unruly sheep. I shrank back from Scroggie, wishing 
Turkey, who was still at the other end of the bridge, 
would make haste. 

“Wasn^t it fun, Ranald?” said Scroggie. “You 
don’t think I was so lame that I couldn’t get over that 
gate ? I stuck on purpose.” 

Turkey joined us with an inquiring look, for he 
knew how Scroggie had been in the habit of treating 
me. 

“It’s all right, Turkey,” I said. “Scroggie stuck 
on the gate on purpose.” 

“A good thing for you, Ranald,” said Turkey. 
“ Didn’t you see Peter Mason among them ?” 

“ No. He left the school last year.” 

“He was there, though, and I don’t suppose 
meant to be agreeable.” 

“ I tell you what,” said Scroggie : “ if you like. I’ll 
leave my school and come to yours. My mother lets 
me do as I like.” 

I thanked him, but said I did not think there would 
be more of it. It would blow over. 



“ The dog rushed past me on to the bridge.” Page 236. 

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RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 239 

Allister told my father as much as he knew of the 
affair ; and when he questioned me I told him as much 
as I knew. 

The next morning, just as we were all settling to 
work, my father entered the school. The hush that 
followed was intense. The place might have been 
absolutely empty for any sound I could hear for some 
seconds. The ringleaders of my enemies hung down 
their heads, as anticipating an outbreak of vengeance. 
But after a few moments^ conversation with Mr. 
Wilson, my father departed. There was a mystery 
about the proceeding, an unknown possibility of re- 
sult, which had a very sedative effect the whole of the 
morning. When we broke up for dinner, Mr. Wilson 
detained me and told me that my father thought it 
better that, for some time at least, I should not occupy 
such a prominent position as before. He was very 
sorry, he said, for I had been a great help to him ; and 
if I did not object he would ask my father to allow me 
to assist him in the evening-school during the winter. I 
was delighted at the prospect, sank back into my 
natural position, and met with no more annoyance. 
After a while I was able to assure my former foes that 
I had had no voice in bringing punishment upon 
them in particular, and the enmity was, I believe, quite 
extinguished. 

When winter came and the evening-school was 
opened, Mr. Wilson called at the manse, and my 
father very willingly assented to the proposed arrange 
ment. The scholars were mostly young men from 
neighboring farms or from workshops in the village, 
with whom, although I was so much younger than 
they, there was no danger of jealousy. The additional 


240 RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

assistance they would receive, and their respect for 
superior knowledge, in which, with my advantages, I 
had no credit over them, would prevent any false 
shame because of my inferiority in years. 

There were a few girls at the school as well — among 
the rest, Elsie Duff. Although her grandmother was 
very feeble, Elsie was now able to have a little more of 
her own way, and there was no real reason w’hy the 
old woman should not be left for an hour or two in the 
evening. I need hardly say that Turkey was a regular 
attendant. He always, and I often, saw Elsie home. 

My chief pleasure lay in helping her with her lessons. 
I did my best to assist all who wanted my aid, but 
offered unsolicited attention to her. She was not 
quick, but would never be satisfied until she under- 
stood, and that is more than any superiority of gifts. 
Hence, if her progress was slow, it was unintermitting. 
Turkey was far before me in trigonometry, but I was 
able to help him in grammar and geography ; and 
when he commenced Latin, which he did the same 
winter, I assisted him a good deal. 

Sometimes Mr. Wilson would ask me to go home 
with him after school and take supper. This made me 
late, but my father did not mind it, for he liked me to 
be with Mr. Wilson. I learned a good deal from him 
at such times. He had an excellent little library, and 
would take down his fworite books and read me pas- 
sages. It is wonderful how things which, in reading 
for ourselves, we might pass over in a half-blind man- 
ner, gain their true power and influence through the 
voice of one who sees and feels what is in them. If a 
man in whom you have confidence merely lays his 
finger on a paragraph and says to you, “ Read that,” 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 241 


you will probably discover three times as much in it as 
you would if you had only chanced upon it in the course 
of your reading. In such case the mind gathers itself 
up and is all eyes and ears. 

But Mr. Wilson would sometimes read me a few 
verses of his own, and this was a delight such I have 
rarely experienced. My reader may wonder that a 
full-grown man and a good scholar should condescend 
to treat a boy like me as so much of an equal ; but 
sympathy is precious even from a child, and Mr. W^il- 
son had no companions of his own standing. I believe 
he read more to Turkey than to me, however. 

As I have once apologized already for the introduction 
of a few of his verses with Scotch words in them, I will 
venture to try whether the same apology will not cover 
a second offence of the same sort : 

JEANIE BRAW.i 

I like ye weel upo’ Sundays, Jeanie, 

In yer goon an’ yer ribbons gay ; 

But I like ye better on Mondays, Jeanie, 

And I like ye better the day.* 

For it will come into my heid, Jeanie, 

O’ yer braws® ye are thinkin’ a wee ; 

No’ a’ o’ the Bible-seed, Jeanie, 

Nor the minister nor me. 

% 

And hame across the green, Jeanie, 

Ye gang wi’ a toss o’ yer chin : 

Us twa there’s a shadow atween, Jeanie, 

Though yer hand my airm lies in. 


t Brave ; well-dressed. » To-day. » Bravery ; finery. 


242 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 


But noo, whan I see ye gang, Jeanie, 
Busy wi’ what’s to be dune, 

Liltin’ a haveless * sang, Jeanie, 

I could kiss yer verra shune. 


Wi’ yer silken net on yer hair, Jeanie, 

In yer bonny blue petticoat, 

Wi’ yer kindly arms a’ bare, Jeanie, 

On yer verra shadow I doat 

For ohl but ye’re eident^ and free, Jeanie, 
Airy o’ hert and o’ fit ; * 

There’s a licht shines oot o’ yer ee, Jeanie ; 
O’ yersel’ ye think na a bit. 

Turnin’ or steppin’ alang, Jeanie, 

' Liftin’ and layin’ doon, 

Settin’ richt what’s aye gaein’ wrang, Jeanie, 
Yer motion’s baith dance an’ tune. 


Fillin’ the cogue fra the coo, Jeanie, 
Skimmin’ the yallow cream. 

Poor in’ awa’ the het broo, Jeanie, 

Lichtin’ the lampie’s leme.^ 

I’ the hoose ye’re a licht an’ a law, Jeanie, 
A servant like him that’s abune : 

Oh, a woman’s bonniest o’ a’, Jeanie, 
Whan she’s doing what maun be dune. 


Sae, dressed in yer Sunday claes, Jeanie^ 
Fair kythe ^ ye amang the fair ; 

But dressed in yer ilka-day’s,® Jeanie, 

Yer beauty’s beyond compare. 


* Careless. 

* Flame. 


2 Diligent. 
® Appear. 


® Foot 

* Every-day clothes. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 243 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

A winter’s ride. 

I N this winter, the stormiest I can recolleet, occurred 
the chief adventure of my boyhood — indeed, the 
event most worthy to be called an adventure I have 
ever encountered. 

There had been a tremendous fall of snow, which a 
furious wind, lasting two days and the night between, 
had drifted into great mounds, so that the shape of the 
country was much altered with new heights and hol- 
lows. Even those who were best acquainted with 
them could only guess at the direction of some of the 
roads, and it was the easiest thing in the world to lose 
the right track, even in broad daylight. As soon as 
the storm was over, however, and the frost was found 
likely to continue, they had begun to cut passages 
through some of the deeper wreaths, as they called the 
snow-mounds, while over the tops of others and 
along the general line of the more frequented roads 
footpaths were soon trodden. It was many days, how- 
ever, before vehicles could pass and coach communica- 
tion be resumed between the towns. All the short day 
the sun, though low, was brilliant, and the whole coun- 
try shone with dazzling whiteness ; but after sunset, 
which took place between three and four o’clock, any- 
thing more dreary can hardly be imagined, especially 
when the keenest of winds rushed in gusts from the 
north-east, and lifting the snow-powder from untrodden 
shadows, blew it, like so many stings, in the face of the 
freezing traveler. 

Early one afternoon, just as I came home from 


244 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD. 


school, which in winter was always over at three 
o’clock, my father received a message that a certain 
laird, or squire — as he would be called in England — 
whose house lay three or four miles off amongst the 
hills, was at the point of death, and very anxious to see 
him : a groom on horseback had brought the message. 
The old man had led a life of indifferent repute, and 
that probably made him the more anxious to see my 
father, who proceeded at once to get ready for the un- 
inviting journey. 

Since my brother Tom’s departure I had become yet 
more of a companion to my father; and now, when I 
saw him preparing to set out, I begged to be allowed 
to go with him. His little black mare had a daughter, 
not unused to the saddle. She was almost twice her 
mother’s size, and none the less clumsy that she was 
chiefly employed upon the farm. Still, she had a touch 
of the roadster in her, and if not capable of elegant 
motion, could get over the ground well enough with a 
sort of speedy slouch, while, as was of far more conse- 
quence on an expedition like the present, she was of 
great strength, and could go through the wreaths, 
Andrew said, like a red-hot iron. 

My father hesitated, looked out at the sky, and hesi- 
tated still : 

“I hardly know what to say, Ranald. If I were 
sure of the weather — but I am very doubtful. How- 
ever, if it should break up, we can stay there all night. 
Yes. Here, Allister ; run and tell Andrew to saddle 
both the mares, and bring them down directly. Make 
haste with your dinner, Ranald.” 

Delighted at the prospect, I did make haste; the 
meal was soon over, and Kirsty expended her utmost 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 245 


care in clothing me for the journey, which would cer- 
tainly be a much longer one in regard to time than of 
space. In half an hour we were all mounted and on 
our way — the groom, who had so lately traversed the 
road, a few yards in front. 

I have already said, perhaps more than once, that my 
father took comparatively little notice of us as children, 
beyond teaching us of a Sunday, and sometimes of a 
week-evening in winter, generally after we were in 
bed. He rarely fondled us, or did anything to supply 
in that manner the loss of our mother. I believe his 
thoughts were tenderness itself toward us, but they did 
not show themselves in ordinary shape : some connect- 
ing link was absent. It seems to me now sometimes 
that perhaps he was wisely retentive of his feelings, 
and waited a better time to let them flow. For, ever 
as we grew older, we drew nearer to my father, or, 
more properly, my father drew us nearer to him, drop- 
ping, by degrees, that reticence which, perhaps, too 
many parents of character keep up until their children 
are full grown ; and by this time he would converse 
with me most freely. I presume he had found, or be- 
lieved he had found, me trustworthy, and incapable of 
repeating unwisely any remarks he made. But, much 
as he hated certain kinds of gossip, he believed that in- 
difference to your neighbor and his affairs was worse. 
He said everything depended on the spirit in which 
men spoke of each other ; that much of what was called 
gossip was only a natural love of biography, and, if 
kindly, was better than blameless ; that the greater part 
of it was objectionable simply because it was not lov- 
ing, only curious ; while a portion was amongst the 
wickedest things on earth, because it had for its object 


246 RANALD BANNRRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

to believe and make others believe the worst. I men- 
tion these opinions of my father, lest any one should 
misjudge the fact of his talking to me as he did. 

Our horses made very slow progress. It was almost 
nowhere possible to trot, and we had to plod on step 
by step. This made it more easy to converse. 

“The country looks dreary, doesn’t it, Ranald?’^ he 
said. 

“Just like as if everything was dead, father,*’ I 
replied. 

“ If the sun were to cease shining altogether, what 
do you think would happen 

I thought a bit, but was not prepared to answer, 
when my father spoke again : 

“ What makes the seeds grow, Ranald— the oats, 
and the wheat, and the barley ?” 

“ The rain, father,” I said, with half knowledge. 

Well, if there were no sun, the vapors would not 
rise to make clouds. What rain there was already in 
the sky would come down in snow or lumps of ipe. 
The earth would grow colder and colder, and harder 
and harder, until at last it went sweeping through the 
air, one frozen mass, as hard as stone, without a green 
leaf or a living creature upon it.” 

“ How dreadful to think of, father !” I said. 

“ Yes, my boy. It is the sun that is the life of the 
world. Not only does he make the rain rise to fall on 
the seeds in the earth, but even that would be useless 
if he did not make them warm as well, and do some- 
thing else to them besides which we cannot understand. 
Farther down into the earth than any of the rays of 
light can reach, he sends other rays we cannot see, 
which go searching about in it like long fingers ; and 







“We had to plod step by step.’ Page 246. 


247 










RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 249 

whenever they find and touch a seed, the life that is in 
that seed begins to talk to itself, as it were, and straight- 
way begins to grow. Out of the dark earth he thus 
brings all the lovely green things of the spring, and 
clothes the world with beauty, and sets the waters run- 
ning and the birds singing, and the lambs bleating, and 
the children gathering daisies and buttercups, and the 
gladness overflowing in all hearts — very different from 
what we see now, isn’t it, Ranald 

“Yes, father; a body can hardly believe, to look at 
it now, that the world will ever be like that again.” 

“ But, for as cold and wretched as it looks, the sun 
has not forsaken it. He has only drawn away from it 
a little, for good reasons, one of which is that we may 
learn that we cannot do without him. If he were to 
go, not one breath more could one of us draw. Horses 
and men, we should drop down frozen lumps, as hard 
as stones. Who is the sun’s father, Ranald.?” 

“ He hasn’t got a father,” I replied, hoping for some 
answer as to a riddle. 

“ Yes, he has, Ranald ; I can prove that. You re- 
member whom the Apostle James calls the Father of 
Lights.?” 

“ Oh yes, of course, father. But doesn’t that mean 
another kind of lights.?” 

“ Yes. But they couldn’t be called lights if they 
were not like the sun. All kinds of lights must come 
from the Father of Lights. Now, the Father of the sun 
must be like the sun, and indeed, of all material things, 
the sun is likest to God. We pray to God to shine 
upon us and give us light. If God did not shine into 
our hearts, they would be dead lumps of cold. We 
shouldn’t care for anything whatever.” 


250 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

“ Then, father, God never stops shining upon us. 
He wouldn’t be like the sun if he did. For even in 
winter the sun shines enough to keep us alive.” 

“ True, my boy. I am very glad you understand 
me. In all my experience I have never yet known a 
man in whose heart I could not find proofs of the shin- 
ing of the great Sun. It might be a very feeble, wintry 
shine, but still he was there. For a human heart, 
though, it is very dreadful to have a cold, white winter 
like this inside it, instead of a summer of color and 
warmth and light. There’s the poor old man we are 
going to see. They talk of the winter of age : that’s 
all very well, but the heart is not made for winter. A 
man may have the snow on his roof and merry chil- 
dren about his hearth ; he may have gray hairs on his 
head and the very gladness of summer in his bosom. 
But this old man, I am afraid, feels wintry cold within.” 

“ Then why doesn’t the Father of Lights shine more 
on him and make him warmer?” 

“ The sun is shining as much on the earth in the 
winter as in the summer : why is the earth no warmer ?” 

“ Because,” I answered, calling up what little as- 
tronomy I knew, “ that part of it is turned away from 
the sun.” 

“Just so. Then if a man turns himself away from 
the Father of Lights — the great Sun — how can he be 
warmed ?” 

“ But the earth can’t help it, father.” 

“ But the man can, Ranald. He feels the cold, and 
he knows he can turn to the light. Even this poor 
old man knows it now. God is shining on him a win- 
try way, or he would not feel the cold at all ; he would 
be only a lump of ice, a part of the very winter itself. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 251 

The good of what warmth God gives him is, that he 
feels cold. If he were all cold, he couldn't feel cold.” 

“ Does he want to turn to the Sun, then, father.?” 

“ I do not know. I only know that he is miserable 
because he has not turned to the Sun.” 

“ What will you say to him, father?” 

“ I cannot tell, my boy. It depends on what I find 
him thinking. Of all things, my boy, keep your face 
to the Sun. You can’t shine of yourself, you can’t be 
good of yourself, but God has made you able to turn 
to the Sun whence all goodness and all shining comes. 
God’s children may be very naughty, but they must be 
able to turn toward him. The Father of Lights is the 
Father of every weakest little baby of a good thought 
in us, as well as of the highest devotion of martyrdom. 
If you turn your face to the Sun, my boy, your soul 
will, when you come to die, feel like an autumn, with 
the golden fruits of the earth hanging in rich clusters 
ready to be gathered — not like a winter. You may 
feel ever so worn, but you will not feel withered. You 
will die in peace, hoping for the spring — and such a 
spring !” 

Thus talking, in the course of two hours or so we 
arrived at the dwelling of the old laird. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE PEAT-STACK. 

OW dreary the old house 
looked as we approach- 
ed it through the gather- 
ing darkness ! All the 
light appeared to come 
from the snow, which 
rested wherever it could 
lie — on roofs and win- 
dow-ledges and turrets. 
Even on the windward 
walls every little rough- 
ness sustained its own 
frozen patch, so that 
their gray was spotted 
all over with whiteness. 
Not a glimmer shone 
from the windows. 
“Nobody lives there^ father,” I said — “ surely?” 

“ It does not look very lively,” he answered. 

The house stood upon a bare knoll. There was not 
a tree within sight. Rugged hills arose on all sides 
of it. Not a sound was heard but the moan of an 
occasional gust of wind. There was a brook, but it 
lay frozen beneath yards of snow. For miles in any 
direction those gusts might wander without shaking 
262 



RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 253 


door or window, or carrying with them a puff of 
smoke from any hearth. We were crossing the yard 
at the back of the house, toward the kitchen door, for 
the front door had not been opened for months, when 
we recognized the first sign of life. That was only the 
low of a bullock. As we dismounted on a few feet of 
rough pavement which had been swept clear, an old 
woman came to the door and led us into a dreary 
parlor without even a fire to welcome us. 

I learned afterward that the laird, from being a 
spendthrift in his youth, had become a miser in his 
age, and that every household arrangement was on 
the narrowest scale. From wasting righteous pounds 
he had come to scraping unrighteous farthings. 

After we had remained standing for some time, the 
housekeeper returned and invited my father to go to 
the laird’s room. As they went he requested her to 
take me to the kitchen, which, after conducting him, 
she did. The sight of the fire, although it was of the 
smallest, was most welcome. She laid a few more 
peats upon it and encouraged them to a blaze, remark- 
ing, with a sidelong look, “We daren’t do this, you 
see, sir, if the laird was about. The honest man would 
call it waste.” 

“ Is he dying.?” I asked, for the sake of saying some- 
thing ; but she only shook her head for reply, and, go- 
ing to a press at the other end of the large, vault-like 
kitchen, brought me some milk in a basin and some 
oatcake upon a platter, saying, 

“ It’s not my house, you see, or I would have some- 
thing better to set before the minister’s son.” 

I was glad of any food, however, and it was well for 
that I ate heartily. I had got quite warm also be- 
22 


me 


254 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

fore my father stepped into the kitchen, very solemn, 
and stood up with his back to the fire. The old wo- 
man set him a chair, but he neither sat down nor ac- 
cepted the refreshment which she humbly offered 
him. 

We must be going,” he objected, “ for it looks 
stormy, and the sooner we set out the better.” 

“ I’m sorry I can’t ask you to stop the night,” she 
said, “ for I couldn’t make you comfortable. There’s 
nothing fit to offer you in the house, and there’s not a 
bed that’s been slept in for I don’t know how long.” 

“ Never mind,” said my father, cheerfully. “ The 
moon is up already, and we shall get home, I trust, 
before the snow begins to fall. Will you tell the man 
to get the horses out.?” 

When she returned from taking the message, she 
came up to my father and said, in a loud whisper, 

“ Is he in a bad way, sir.?” 

“ He is dying,” answered my father. 

“ I know tha,t,” she returned. “ He’ll be gone before 
the morning. But that’s not what I meant. Is he in 
a bad way for the other world? That’s what I meant, 
sir.” 

“Well, my good woman, after a life like his we are 
only too glad to remember what our Lord told us — not 
to judge. I do think he is ashamed and sorry for his 
past life. But it’s not the wrong he has done in former 
time that stands half so much in his way as his present 
fondness for what he counts his own. It seems like to 
break his heart to leave all his little bits of property — 
particularly the money he has saved ; and yet he has 
some hope that Jesus Christ will be kind enough to 
pardon him. I am afraid he will find himself very 



“So saying, my father knelt down.” 257. 


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RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 257 

miserable, though, when he has not one scrap left to 
call his own — not a pocket-knife even.” 

“ It’s dreadful to think of him flying through the air 
on a night like this,” said she. 

“ My good woman,” returned my father, “ we know 
nothing about where or how the departed spirit exists 
after it has left the body. But it seems to me just as 
dreadful to be without God in the world as to be with- 
out him anywhere else. Let us pray for him that God 
may be with him wherever he is.” 

So saying, my father knelt down, and we beside him, 
and he prayed earnestly to God for the old man. Then 
we rose, mounted our horses and rode away. 

We were only about half-way home when the clouds 
began to cover the moon and the snow began to fall. 
Hitherto we had got on pretty well, for there was light 
enough to see the track, feeble as it was. Now, how- 
ever, we had to keep a careful look-out. We pressed 
our horses, and they went bravely, but it was slow work 
at the best. It got darker and darker, for the clouds 
went on gathering and the snow was coming down in 
huge dull flakes. Faster and thicker they came, until 
at length we could see nothing of the road before us, 
and were compelled to leave all to the wisdom of our 
horses. My father, having great confldence in his own 
little mare, which had carried him through many a 
doubtful and difficult place, rode first. I followed close 
behind. He kept on talking to me very cheerfully — I 
have thought since — to prevent me from getting fright- 
ened. But I had not a thought of fear. To be with 
my father was to me perfect safety. He was in the act 
of telling me how, on more occasions than one. Missy 
had got him through places where the road was impas- 


258 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 

sable by walking on the tops of the walls, when all 
at once both our horses plunged into a gulf of snow. 
The more my mare struggled the deeper we sank in it. 
For a moment I thought it was closing over my head. 

“Father! father I” I shouted. 

“ Don’t be frightened, my boy,” cried my father, his 
voice seeming to come from far away. “We are in 
God’s hands. I can’t help you now, but as soon as 
Missy has got quieter I shall come to you. I think I 
know whereabouts we are. We’ve dropped right off 
the road. You’re not hurt, are you ?” 

“Not in the least,” I answered : “ I was only fright- 
ened.” 

A few, moments more and my mare lay or rather 
stuck quiet, with her neck and head thrown back and 
her body deep in the snow. I put up my hands to feel. 
It rose above my head farther than I could reach. I 
got clear of the stirrups and scrambled up, first on my 
knees and tlien on my feet. Standing thus upon the 
saddle, again I stretched my hands above my head, but 
still the broken wall of snow ascended above my reach. 
I could see nothing of my father, but I heard him talk- 
ing to Missy. My mare soon began floundering again, 
so that I tumbled about against the sides of the hole, 
and grew terrified lest I should bring the snow down. 
I therefore cowered upon the mare’s back until she was 
quiet again. “ Whoa I quiet, my lass I” I heard my 
father saying, and it seemed his Missy was more fright- 
ened than mine. 

My fear was now quite gone, and I felt much inclined 
to laugh at the fun of the misadventure. I had as yet 
no idea of how serious a thing it might be. Still, I had 
sense enough to see that something must be done — but 


• « 


k 















RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 261 


what? I saw no way of getting out of the hole except 
by trampling down the snow upon the back of my poor 
mare, and that I could not think of ; while I doubted 
much whether my father even could tell in what direc- 
tion to turn for help or shelter. Finding onr way home, 
even if we got free, seemed out of the question. Again 
my mare began plunging violently, and this time I found 
myself thrown against some hard substance. I thrust 
my hand through the snow, and felt what I thought the 
stones, of one of the dry walls common to the country. 
I might clear away enough of the snow to climb upon 
that ; but then what next } — it was so dark, 

“ Ranald,” cried my father, “ how do you get on.?” 

“ Much the same, father,” I answered. 

“ I’m out of the wreath,” he returned. We’ve come 
through on the other side. You are bettor where you 
are I suspect, however. The snow is warmer than the 
air. It is beginning to blow. Pull your feet oiit and 
get right upon the mare’s back.” 

“ That’s just where I am, father — lying on her back, 
and pretty comfortable,” I rejoined. 

All this time the snow was falling thick. If it went 
on like this, I should be buried before morning, and the 
fact that the wind was rising added to the danger of it. 
We were at the wrong end of the night, too. 

“ I’m in a kind of ditch, I think, father,” I cried, 
“ between the place we fell off on one side and a stone 
wall on the other.” 

“ That can hardly be, or I shouldn’t have got out,” 
he returned. But now I’ve got Missy quiet. I’ll come 
to you. I must get you out, I see, or you wiH be 
snowed up. Whoa, Missy ! Good mare ! Stand 

The next moment he gave a joyous exclamati'^a. 


262 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 


“ What is it, father?” I cried. 

‘‘ It’s not a stone wall ; it’s a peat-stack. That is 
good.” 

“ I don’t see what good it is. We can’t light a fire.” 

“ No, my boy ; but where there’s a peat-stack there’s 
probably a house.” 

He began uttering a series of shouts at the top of his 
voice, listening between for a response. This lasted a 
good while. I began to get very cold. 

“ I’m nearly frozen, father,” I said ; “ and what’s to 
become of the poor mare } — she’s got no clothes on.” 

“ I’ll get you out, my boy, and then at least you will 
be able to move about a little.” 

I heard him shoveling at the snow with his hands 
and feet. 

“ I have got to the corner of the stack, and as well 
as I can judge you must be just round it,” he said. 

“ Your voice is close to me,” I answered. 

“ I’ve got a hold of one of the mare’s ears,” he said 
next. “ I won’t try to get her out until I get you off 
her.” 

I put out my hand and felt along the mare’s neck. 
What a joy it was to catch my father’s hand through 
the darkness and the snow ! He grasped mine and 
drew me toward him, then got me by the arm and be- 
gan dragging me through the snow. The mare began 
plunging again, and by her struggles rather assisted 
my father. In a few moments he had me in his 
arms. 

“ Thank God !” he said, as he set me down against 
the peat-stack. “ Stand there. A little farther. Keep 
well off for fear she hurt you. She must fight her way 
out now.” 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 263 

He went back to the mare and went on clearing 
away the snow. Then I could hear him patting and 
encouraging her. Next I heard a great blowing and 
scrambling, and at last a snort and the thunder of 
hoofs. 

“ Whoa ! whoa ! Gently ! gently ! She’s off!” cried 
my father. 

Her mother gave one snort, and away she went 
thundering after her. But their sounds were soon 
quenched in the snow. 

“ There’s a business,” said my father : “ I’m afraid the 
poor things will only go farther to fare the worse. We 
are as well without them, however ; and if they should 
find their way home, so much the better for us. They 
might have kept us a little warmer, though. We must 
fight the cold as we best can for the rest of the night, 
for it would only be folly to leave the spot before it is 
light enough to see where we are going.” 

It came into my mind suddenly how I had burrowed 
in the straw to hide myself after running from Dame 
Shand’s. But whether that or the thought of burrow- 
ing in the peat-stack came first, I cannot tell. I turned 
and felt whether I could draw out a peat. With a little 
loosening I succeeded. 

“Father,” I said, “couldn’t we make a hole in the 
peat-stack and build ourselves in.?” 

“ A capital idea, my boy !” he answered, with a glad- 
ness in his voice which I venture to attribute in part to 
his satisfaction at finding that I had some practical 
sense in me. “ We’ll try it at once.” 

“ I’ve got two or three out already,” I said, for I had 
gone on pulling, and it was easy enough after one had 
been started. 


264 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

“ We must take care we don’t bring down the whoU 

stack, though,” said my father. 

“ Even then,” I returned, “ we could build ourselves 
up in them, and that would be something.” 

“ Right, Ranald ! It would be only making houses 
to our own shape, instead of big enough to move about 
in — turning crustaceous animals, you know. 

“ It would be a peat greatcoat at least,” I remarked, 
pulling away. 

“ Here,” he said, “ I will put my stick in under the 
top row. That will be a sort of lintel to support those 
above.” 

He always carried his walking-stick whether he rode 
or walked. 

We worked with a will, piling up the peats a little 
in front that we might with them build up the door of 
our cave after we were inside. We got quite merry 
over it. 

“ We shall be brought before the magistrates for de- 
struction of property,” said my father. 

“ You’ll have to send Andrew to build up the stack 
again, that’s all.” 

“But I wonder how it is that nobody hears us? 
How can they have built a peat-stack so far from the 
house ?” 

“ I can’t imagine,” I said, “ except it be to prevent 
them from burning too many peats. It is more like a 
trick of the poor laird than anybody else.” 

Every now and then a few would come down with a 
rush, and before long we had made a large hole. We 
left a good thick floor to sit upon. 

Creeping in, we commenced building up the en- 
trance. We had not proceeded far, however, before 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 265 

we found that our cave was too small, and that as we 
should have to remain in it for hours, we must find it 
very cramped. Therefore, instead of using any more 
of the peats already pulled out, we finished building up 
the wall with others fresh drawn from the inside. 
When at length we had, to the best of our ability, com- 
pleted our immuring, we sat down to wait for the 
morning, my father as calm as if he had been seated in 
his study-chair, and I in a state of condensed delight ; 
for was not this a grand adventure — with my father to 
share it, and keep it from going too far? He sat with 
his back leaning against the side of the hole, and I sat 
between his knees and leaned against him. His arms 
were folded round me ; and could ever boy be more 
blessed than I was then ? The sense of outside danger ; 
the knowledge that if the wind rose we might be walled 
up in snow before the morning ; the assurance of pres- 
ent safety and good hope, — all made such an impres- 
sion upon my mind that ever since, when any trouble 
has threatened me, I have invariably turned first in 
thought to the memory of that harbor of refuge from 
the storm. There I sat for long hours secure in my 
father’s arms, and knew that the soundless snow was 
falling thick around us, and marked occasionally the 
threatening wail of the wind like the cry of a wild 
beast scenting us from afar. 

“ This is grand, father,” I said. 

“You would like better to be at home in bed, 
wouldn’t you?” he asked, trying me. 

“ No, indeed, I should not,” I answered, with more 
than honesty, for I felt exuberantly happy. 

“ If only we can keep warm,” said my father. “ If 
you should get very cold indeed you must not lose 


266 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 


heart, my man, but think how pleasant it will be when 
we get home to a good fire and a hot breakfast.” 

“ I think I can bear it all right. I have often been 
cold enough at school.” 

“ This may be worse. But we need not anticipate 
evil : that is to send out for the suffering. It is well to 
be prepared for it, but it is ill to brood over a fancied 
future of evil. In all my life, my boy — and I should 
like you to remember what I say — I have never found 
any trial go beyond what I could bear. In the worst 
cases of suffering I think there is help given which 
those who look on cannot understand, but which en- 
ables the sufferer to endure. The last help of that kind 
is death, which I think is always a blessing, though 
few people can regard it as such.” 

I listened with some wonder. Without being able 
to see that what he said was true, I could yet accept it 
after a vague fashion. 

“ This nest which we have made to shelter us,” he 
resumed, “ brings to my mind what the Psalmist says 
about dwelling in the secret place of the Most High. 
Every one who will, may there, like the swallow, make 
himself a nest.” 

“ This can’t be very like that, though, surely, father,” 
I ventured to object. 

“ Why not, my boy .?” 

“ It’s not safe enough, for one thing.” 

“You are right there. Still it is like. It is our 
place of refuge.” 

“ The cold does get through it, father.” 

“ But it keeps our minds at peace. Even the refuge 
in God does not always secure us from external suffer- 
ing. The heart may be quite happy and strong when 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 267 

the hands are benumbed with cold. Yes, the heart 
even may grow cold with coming death, while the man 
himself retreats the farther into the secret place of the 
Most High, growing more calm and hopeful as the last 
cold invades the house of his body. I believe that all 
troubles come to drive us into that refuge — that secret 
place where alone we can be safe. You will, when 
you go out into the world, my boy, find that most men 
not only do not believe this, but do not believe that you 
believe it. They regard it at best as a fantastic weak- 
ness, fit only for sickly people. But watch how the 
strength of such people, their calmness and common 
sense, fares when the grasp of suffering lays hold upon 
them. It was a sad sight — that abject, hopeless misery 
1 saw this afternoon. If his mind had been an indication 
of the reality, one must have said that there was no God 
— no God, at least, that would have anything to do with 
him. The universe as reflected in the tarnished mirror 
of his soul was a chill, misty void, through which blew 
the moaning wind of an unknown fate. As near as 
ever I saw it, that man was without God and without 
hope in the world. All who have done the mightiest 
things — I do not mean the showiest things — all that are 
like William of Orange — the great William, I mean, 
not our King William — or John Milton, or William 
Penn, or any other of the cloud of witnesses spoken of 
in the Epistle to the Hebrews, — all the men, I say, who 
have done the mightiest things have not only believed 
that there was this refuge in God, but have themselves 
more or less entered into the secret place of the Most 
High. There only could they have found strength to do 
their mighty deeds. They were able to do them be- 
cause they knew God wanted them to do them — that 


268 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

he was on their side, or rather they were on his side, 
and therefore safe, surrounded by God on every side. 
My boy, do the will of God — that is, what you know 
or believe to be right — and fear nothing.” 

I never forgot the lesson. But my readers must not 
think that my father often talked like this. He was 
not at all favorable to much talk about religion. He 
used to say that much talk prevented much thought, 
and talk without thought was bad. Therefore it was 
for the most part only upon extraordinary occasions, of 
which this is an example, that he spoke of the deep 
simplicities of that faith in God which was the very 
root of his conscious life. 

He was silent after this utterance, which lasted 
longer than I have represented, although unbroken, I 
believe, by any remark of mine. Full of inward re- 
pose, I fell asleep in his arms. 

When I awoke I found myself very cold. Then I 
became aware that my father was asleep, and for the 
first time began to be uneasy. It was not because of 
the cold : that was not at all unendurable ; it was that 
while the night lay awful in white silence about me, 
while the wind was moaning outside and blowing long, 
thin currents through the peat walls around me, while 
our warm home lay far away, and I could not tell how 
many hours of cold darkness had yet to pass before we 
could set out to find it, — it was not all these things to- 
gether, but that, in the midst of all these, I was awake 
and my father slept. I could easily have waked him, 
but I was not selfish enough for that : I sat still and 
shivered and felt very dreary. Then the last words of 
my father began to return upon me, and with a throb 
of relief the thought awoke in my mind that, although 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 269 

my father was asleep, the great Father of us both, he 
in whose heart lay that secret place of refuge, neithei 
slumbered nor slept. And now I was able to wait in 
patience, with an idea, if not a sense, of the present 
care of God, such as I had never had before. When, 
after some years, my father was taken from us, the 
thought of this night came again and again, and I 
would say in my heart, “ My father sleeps that I may 
know the better that the Father wakes.” 

At length he stirred. The first sign of his awaking 
was that he closed again the arms about me which 
had dropped by his sides as he slept. 

“ Ihn so glad youTe awake, father !” I said, speaking 
first. 

“ Have you been long awake then he asked. 

“ Not so very long, but I felt very lonely without 
you.” 

“Are you very cold? I feel rather chilly.” 

So we chatted away for a while. 

“I wonder if it is nearly day yet? I do not in the 
least know how long we have slept. I wonder if my 
watch is going? I forgot to wind it up last night. If 
it has stopped, I shall know it is near daylight.” 

He held his watch to his ear : alas ! it was ticking 
vigorously. He felt for the key-hole and wound it up. 
After that we employed ourselves in repeating as many 
of the metrical psalms and paraphrases of Scripture as 
we could recollect, and this helped away a good part 
of the weary time. 

But it went very slowly, and I was growing so cold 
that I could hardly bear it. 

“ I’m afraid you feel very cold, Ranald,” said my 
father, folding me closer in his arms. “ You must try 
23 * 


270 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

not to go to sleep again, for that would be dangerous 
now. I feel more cramped than cold.” 

As he said this he extended his legs and threw his 
head back, to get rid of the uneasiness by stretching 
himself. The same moment down came a shower of 
peats upon our heads and bodies, and when I tried 
to move I found myself fixed. I could not help 
laughing. 

“ Father,” I cried as soon as I could speak, “ you’re 
like Samson : you’ve brought down the house upon us.” 

“ So I have, my boy. It was very thoughtless of me. 
I don’t know what we are to do now.” 

“ Can you move, father.? /can’t,” I said. 

“ I can move my legs, but I’m afraid to move even 
a toe in my boot for fear of bringing down another 
avalanche of peats. But no — there’s not much danger 
of that: they are all down already, for I feel the snow 
on my face.” 

With hands and feet my father struggled, but could 
not do much, for I lay against him under a great heap. 
His strugglings made an opening sideways, however. 

“ Father ! father ! shout,” I cried. “ I see a light 
somewhere, and I think it is moving.” 

We shouted as loud as we could, and then lay listen- 
ing. My heart beat so that I was afraid I should not 
hear any reply that might come. But the next moment 
it rang through the frosty air. 

“ It’s Turkey ! That’s Turkey, father !” I cried. “ I 
know his shout. He makes it go farther than anybody 
else. Turkey! Turkey!” I shrieked, almost weeping 
with delight. 

Again Turkey’s cry rang through the darkness, and 
the light drew wavering nearer. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 2p 

“ Mind how you step, Turkey,” cried my father. 

‘ There’s a hole you may tumble into.” 

“ It wouldn’t hurt him much in the snow,” I said. 

“ Perhaps not, but he would probably lose his light, 
and that we can hardly afford.” 

“ Shout again,” cried Turkey. “ I can’t make out 
where you are.” 

My father shouted. 

“Am I coming nearer to you now?” 

“ I can hardly say. I cannot see well. Are you 
going along the road ?” 

“Yes. Can’t you come to me.?” 

“ Not yet. We can’t get out. We’re upon your right 
hand, in a peat-stack.” 

“ Oh, I know the peat-stack. I’ll be with you in a 
moment.” 

He did not, however, find it so easily as he had ex- 
pected, the peats being covered with snow."^ My father 
gave up trying to free himself, and took to laughing in- 
stead at the ridiculous situation in which we were about 
to be discovered. He kept directing Turkey, however, 
who at length, after some disappearances which made 
us very anxious about the lantern, caught sight of the 
stack and walked straight toward it. Now first we saw 
that he was not alone, but accompanied by the silent 
Andrew. 

“Where are you, sir.?” asked Turkey, throwing the 
light of the lantern over the ruin. 

“ Buried in the peats,” answered my father, laughing. 
“ Come and get us out.” 

Turkey strode up to the heap, and turning the light 
down into it, said, 

“ I didn’t know it had been raining peats, sir.” 


2^2 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

“ The peats didn’t fall quite so far as the snow, 
Turkey, or they would have made a worse job of it,” 
answered my father. 

Meantime, Andrew and Turkey were both busy ; and 
in a few moments we stood upon our feet, stiff with 
cold and cramped with confinement, but merry enough 
at heart. 

“What brought you out to look for us.?*” asked my 
father. 

“ I heard Missy whinnying at the stable-door,” said 
Andrew. “ When I saw she was alone, I knew some- 
thing had happened, and waked Turkey. We only 
stopped to run to the manse for a drop of whisky to 
bring with us, and set out at once.” 

“ What o’clock is it now ?” asked my father. 

“ About one o’clock,” answered Andrew. 

“ One o’clock !” thought I. What a time we should 
have had to wait !” 

“ Have you been long in finding us.?” 

“ Only about an hour.” 

“ Then the little mare must have had great trouble in 
getting home. You say the other was not with her?” 

“ No, sir. She’s not made her appearance.” 

“ Then, if we don’t find her, she will be dead before 
morning. But what shall we do with you, Ranald? 
Turkey had better go home with you first.” 

“ Please let me go too,” I said. 

“Are you able to walk?” 

“ Quite — or at least I shall be after my legs come to 
themselves a bit.” 

Turkey produced a bottle of milk which he had 
brought for me, and Andrew produced the little flask 
of whisky which Kirsty had sent ; and my father hav- 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 273 


mg taken a little of the latter, while I emptied my 
bottle, we set out to look for young Missy. 

“ Where are we ?” asked my father. 

Turkey told him. 

“ How comes it that nobody heard our shouting, 
then?’* 

“ You know, sir,” answered Turkey, “ the old man 
is as deaf as a post, and I dare say his people were all 
fast asleep.” 

The snow was falling only in a few large flakes now, 
which sank through the air like the moultings of some 
lovely bird of heaven. The moon had come out again, 
and the white world lay around us in lovely light. A 
good deal of snow had fallen while we lay in the peats, 
but we could yet trace the track of the two horses. We 
followed it a long way through the little valley into 
which we had dropped from the side of the road. We 
came to more places than one where they had been 
floundering together in a snow-wreath, but at length 
reached the spot where one had parted from the other. 
When we had traced one of the tracks to the road, we 
concluded it was Missy’s and returned to the other. 
But we had not followed it very far before we came 
upon the poor mare lying upon her back in a deep 
runnel, in which the snow was very soft. She had put 
her fore feet in it as she galloped heedlessly along, and 
tumbled right over. The snow had yielded enough to 
let the banks get a hold of her, and she lay helpless. 
Turkey and Andrew, however, had had the foresight 
to bring spades with them and a rope, and they set to 
work at once, my father taking a turn now and then, 
and I holding the lantern, which was all but useless 
novv in the moonlight. It took more than an hour to 


274 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 

get the poor thing on her legs again, but when she was 
up, it was all they could do to hold her. She was so 
wild with cold and with delight at feeling her legs 
under her once more that she would have broken loose 
again and galloped off as recklessly as ever. They set 
me on her back, and with my father on one side and 
Turkey on the other, and Andrew at her head, I rode 
home in great comfort. It was another good hour be- 
fore we arrived, and right glad were we to see through 
the curtains of the parlor the glow of the great fire 
which Kirsty had kept up for us. She burst out crying 
when we made our appearance. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 


A SOLITARY CHAPTER. 


URING all that winter 
I attended the evening 
school and assisted the 
master. I confess, how- 
ever, it was not by any 
means so much for the 
master as to be near 
Elsie Duff, of whom I 
now thought many times 
an hour. Her sweet face 
grew more and more dear 
to me. When I pointed 
out an error in her work, 
or suggested a better mode 
of working, it would flush 
like the heart of a white 
rose, and eagerly she would set herself to rectification 
or improvement, her whole manner a dumb apology 
for what could be a fault in no eyes but her own. It 
was this sweetness that gained upon me: at length her 
face was almost a part of my consciousness. I suppose 
my condition was what people would call being in love 
with her, but I never thought of that ; I only thought 
of her. Nor did I ever dream of saying a word to her on 

276 



276 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOTHOOD. 

the subject. I wished nothing other than as it was. To 
think about her all day so gently that it never dis- 
turbed Euclid or Livy ; to see her at night, and get 
near her now and then, sitting on the same form with 
her as I explained something to her on the slate or in 
her book ; to hear her voice and look into her tender 
eyes were all that I desired. It never occurred to me 
that things could not go on so ; that a change must come ; 
that as life cannot linger in the bud, but is compelled 
by the sunshine and air into the flower, so life would 
go on and on, and things would change, and the time 
blossom into something else, and my love find itself set 
out of doors in the midst of strange plants and a new 
order of things. 

When school was over, I walked home with her — 
not alone, for Turkey was always on the other side. I 
had not a suspicion that Turkey’s admiration of Elsie 
could ever come into collision with mine. We joined 
in praising her, but my admiration ever found more 
words than Turkey’s, and I thought my love to her was 
greater than his. 

We seldom went into her grandmother’s cottage, tor 
she did not make us welcome. After we had taken 
her home we generally repaired to Turkey’s mother, 
with whom we were sure of a kind reception. She 
was a patient, diligent woman, who looked as if she 
had nearly done with life, and had only to gather up 
the crumbs of it. I have often wondered since what 
was her deepest thought — whether she was content to 
be unhappy, or whether she lived in hope of some 
blessedness beyond. It is marvelous with how little 
happiness some people can get through the world. 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 277 


Surely they are inwardly sustained with something 
even better than joy. 

“Did you ever hear my mother sing?” asked Tur- 
key, as we sat together over her little fire on one of 
these occasions. 

“ No. I should like very much,” I answered. 

The room was lighted only by a little oil lamp, for 
there was no flame to the fire of peats and dried oak 
bark. • 

“ She sings such queer ballads as you never heard,” 
said Turkey. “ Give us one, mother ; do.” 

She yielded, and, in a low chanting voice, sang 
something like this : 

Up cam’ the waves o’ the tide wi’ a whush. 

And back gaed the pebbles wi’ a whurr, 

Whan the king’s ae son cam’ walking i’ the hush. 

To hear the sea murmur and murr. 

The half mune was risin’ the waves abune, 

An’ a glimmer o’ cauld wet licht 

Cam’ ower the water straucht frae the mune, 

Like a path across the nicht. 

What’s that, an’ that, far oot i’ the gray 
Atwixt the mune and the land ? 

' It’s the bonny sea-maidens at their play — 

Hand awa’, king’s son, frae the strand. 

Ae rock stud up wi’ a shadow at its foot : 

The king’s son stepped behind ; 

The merry sea-maidens cam’ gamboling oot. 

Combin’ their hair i’ the wind. 

O merry their laugh when they felt the land 
Under their light cool feet ! 

Each laid her comb on the yellow sand. 

And the gladsome dance grew fleet 


24 


278 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD, 


But the fairest she laid her comb by itsel* 

On the rock where the king’s son lay. 

He stole about, and the carven shell 
He hid in his bosom away. 

And he watched the dance till the clouds did gloom. 
And the wind blew an angry tune ; 

One after one she caught up her comb, 

To the sea went dancin’ doon. 

But the fairest, wi’ hair like the mune in a clud, 

She sought till she was the last. 

He creepin’ went and watchin’ stud, 

And he thought to hold her fast. 

She dropped at his feet without motion or heed ; 

He took her, and home he sped. 

All day she lay like a withered sea-weed. 

On a purple and gowden bed. 

But at night when the wind frae the watery bars 
Blew into the dusky room. 

She opened her een like twa settin’ stars. 

And back came her twilight bloom. 

The king’s son knelt beside her bed : 

She was his ere a month had passed ; 

And the cold sea-maiden he had wed 
Grew a tender wife at last. 

And all went well till her baby was born. 

And then she couldna sleep ; 

She would rise and wander till breakin’ morn, 
Hark-harkin’ the sound o’ the deep. 

One night when the wind was wailin’ about. 

And the sea was speckled wi' foam. 

From room to room she went in and out 
And she came on her carven comb. 


I 



Page 278. 


“ He took her, and home he sped.” 

279 










V 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


281 


She twisted her hair with eager hands, 

She put in the comb with glee : 

She’s out and she’s over the glittering sands, 

And away to the moaning sea. 

One cry came back from far away : 

He woke, and was all alone. 

Her night robe lay on the marble gray. 

And the cold sea-maiden was gone. 

Ever and aye frae first peep o’ the moon. 

Whan the wind blew aff o’ the sea. 

The desert shore still up and doon 
! Heavy at heart paced he. 

But never more came the maidens to play 
From the merry cold-hearted sea ; 

He heard their laughter far out and away, 

But heavy at heart paced he. 

I have modernized the ballad — indeed spoiled it alto- 
gether, for I have made up this version from the mem- 
ory of it — with only, I fear, just a touch here and there 
of the original expression. 

“That’s what comes of taking what you have no 
right to,” said Turkey, in whom the practical had ever 
the upper hand of the imaginative. 

As we walked home together I resumed the subject : 

“ I think you’re too hard on the king’s son,” I said. 
“ He couldn’t help falling in love with the mermaid.” 

“ He had no business to steal her comb, and then 
run away with herself,” said Turkey. 

“ She was none the worse for it,” said I. 

“Who told you that.?” he retorted. “I don’t think 
the girl herself would have said so. It’s not every girl 
that would care to marry a king’s son. She might 

* 


282 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


have had a lover of her own down in the sea. At all 
events, the prince was none the better for it.” 

“ But the song says she made a tender wife,” I 
objected. 

“ She couldn’t help herself. She made the best of it. 
I dare say he wasn’t a bad sort of a fellow, but he was 
no gentleman.” 

“ Turkey,” I exclaimed, “ he was a prince !” 

“ I know that.” 

“ Then he must have been a gentleman.” 

“ I don’t know that. I’ve read of a good many 
princes who did things I should be ashamed to do.” 

“But you’re not a prince, Turkey,” I returned, in 
the low endeavor to bolster up the wrong with my silly 
logic. 

“No. Therefore if I were to do what was rude 
and dishonest, people would say, ‘ What could you 
expect of a ploughboy V A prince ought to be just so 
much better bred than a ploughboy. I would scorn to 
do what that prince did. What’s wrong in a plough- 
boy can’t be right in a prince, Ranald. Or else right 
is only right sometimes ; so that right may be wrong 
and wrong may be right, which is as much as to say 
there is no right and wrong ; and if there’s no right and 
wrong, the world’s an awful mess, and there can’t be 
any God, for a God would never have made it like 
that.” 

“Well, Turkey, you know best. I can’t help think- 
ing the prince was not so much to blame, though.” 

“ You see what came of it — misery.” 

“ Perhaps he would rather have had the misery and 
all together than none of it.” 

“ That’s for him to settle. But he must have seen he 


4 



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generally saw Turkey walk away with her. 


283 


Page 293. 





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RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD, 285 

was wrong before he had done wandering by the sea 
like that.” 

“Well now, Turkey, what would you have done 
yourself, suppose the beautifulest of them all had laid 
her comb down within an inch of where you were 
standing, and never saw you, you know ?” 

Turkey thought for a moment before answering. 

“ I’m supposing you fell in love with her at first 
sight, you know,” I added. 

“Well, I’m sure I should not have kept the comb, 
even if I had taken it just to get a chance of speaking 
to her. And I can’t help fancying if he had behaved 
like a gentleman, and let her go without touching her 
the first time, she might have come again ; and if he 
had married her at last of her own free will, she would 
not have run away from him, let the sea have kept 
calling her ever so much.” 

The next evening I looked for Elsie as usual, but did 
not see her. How blank and dull the school-room 
seemed ! Still, she might arrive any moment. But she 
did not come. I went through my duties wearily, 
hoping ever for the hour of release. I could sea well 
enough that Turkey was anxious too. The moment 
school was over we hurried away, almost without a 
word, to the cottage. There we found her weeping. 
Her grandmother had died suddenly. She clung to 
Turkey, and seemed almost to forget my presence. 
But I thought nothing of that. Had the case been 
mine, I too should have clung to Turkey from faith in 
his help and superior wisdom. 

There were two or three old women in the place. 
Turkey went and spoke to them, and ther took Elsie 


286 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

home to his mother. Jamie was asleep and they would 
not wake him. 

How it was arranged I forget, but both Elsie and 
Jamie lived for the rest of the winter with Turkey's 
mother. The cottage was let, and the cow taken home 
by their father. Before summer Jamie had got a place 
in a shop in the village, and then Elsie went back to 
her mother. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 

AN EVENING VISIT. 



NOW saw much less of 
Elsie, but I went with 
Turkey as often as I could 
to visit her at her father’s 
cottage. The evenings we 
spent there are amongst 
the happiest hours in my 
memory. One evening 
in particular appears to 
stand out as a type of the 
whole. I remember every 
point in the visit. I think 
it must have been almost 
the last. We set out as 
the sun was going down 
on an evening in the end 
of April, when the nightly 
frosts had not yet vanished. The hail was dancing 
about us as we started ; the sun was disappearing in a 
bank of tawny orange cloud : the night would be cold 
and dark and stormy ; but we cared nothing for that : 
a conflict with the elements always added to the pleas- 
ure of any undertaking then. It was in the midst of 
another shower of hail, driven on the blasts of a keen 
wind, that we arrived at the little cottage. It had been 

287 


288 RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 

built by Duff himself to receive his bride, and, although 
since enlarged, was still a very little house. It had a 
foundation of stone, but the walls were of turf. He 
had lined it with boards, however, and so made it 
warmer and more comfortable than most of the laborers 
dwellings. When we entered, a glowing fire of peat 
was on the hearth, and the pot with the supper hung 
over it. . Mrs. Duff was spinning, and Elsie, by the light 
of a little oil lamp suspended against the wall, was teach- 
ing her youngest brother to read. Whatever she did, 
she always seemed in my eyes to do it better than any 
one else ; and to see her under the lamp, with one arm 
round the little fellow, who stood leaning against her, 
while the other hand pointed with a knitting-needle to 
the letters of the spelling-book which lay on her knee, 
was to see a lovely picture. The mother did not rise 
from her spinning, but spoke a kindly welcome, while 
Elsie got up, and, without approaching us or saying 
more than a word or two, set chairs for us by the fire 
and took the little fellow away to put him to bed. 

“It’s a cold night,” said Mrs. Duff. “The wind 
seems to blow through me as I sit at my wheel. I 
wish my husband would come home.” 

He’ll be suppering his horses,” said Turkey. “ I’ll 
just run across and give him a hand, and that 11 biing 
him in the sooner.” 

“ Thank you, Turkey,” said Mrs. Duff as he van- 
ished. 

“ He’s a fine lad,” she remarked, much in the same 
phrase my father used when speaking of him. 

“There’s nobody like Turkey,” I said. 

“Indeed, I think you’re right there, Ranald. A 
better-behaved lad doesn’t step. He’ll do something 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 289 

to distinguish himself some day. I shouldn’t wonder 
if he went to college and wagged his head in a 
pulpit yet.” 

The idea of Turkey wagging his head in a pulpit 
made me laugh. 

“Wait till you see,” resumed Mrs. Duff, somewhat 
offended at my reception of her prophecy. “ Folk will 
hear of him yet.” 

“ I didn’t mean he couldn’t be a minister, Mrs. Duff. 
But I don’t think he will take to that.” 

Here Elsie came back, and lifting the lid of the pot, 
examined the state of its contents. I got hold of her 
hand, but for the first time she withdrew it. I did not 
feel hurt, for she did it very gently. Then she began 
to set the white deal table in the middle of the floor, 
and by the time she had put the plates and spoons upon 
it, the water in the pot was boiling and she began to 
make the porridge, at which she was judged to be first- 
rate — in my mind equal to our Kirsty. By the time 
it was ready her father and Turkey came in. James 
Duff said grace, and we sat down to our supper. The 
wind was blowing hard outside, and every now and 
then the hail came in deafening rattles against the little 
windows, and, descending the wide chimney, danced 
on the floor about the hearth ; but not a thought of the 
long, stormy way between us and home interfered with 
the enjoyment of the hour. 

After supper, which was enlivened by simple chat 
about the crops and the doings on the farm, James 
turned to me and said, 

“ Haven’t you got a song or a ballad to give us, 
Ranald.? I know you’re always getting hold of such 
things.” 

25 N 


290 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

I had expected this, for every time I went I tried 
to have something to repeat to them. As I could not 
sing, this was the nearest way in which I might con- 
tribute to the evening's entertainment. Elsie was very 
fond of ballads, and I could hardly please her better 
than by bringing a new one with me. But in default 
of that, an old one or a story would be welcomed. My 
leader must remember that there were very few books 
to be had then in that part of the country, and there- 
fore any mode of literature was precious. The school- 
master was the chief source from which I derived my 
provision of this sort. On the present occasion I was 
prepared with a ballad of his. I remember every word 
of it now, and will give it to my readers, reminding 
them once more how easy it is to skip it if they do not 
care for that kind of thing : 

“ Bonny lassie, rosy lassie, 

Ken ye what is care ? 

Had ye ever a thought, lassie. 

Made yer hertie sair ?” 

Johnnie said it, Johnnie luikin* 

Into Jeannie’s face, 

Seekin’ in the garden hedge 
For an open place. 

** Na,” said Jeannie, saftly smilin’, 

“Naught o’ care ken I ; 

For they say the carlin’ 

Is better passit by.” 

“ Licht o’ hert ye are, Jeannie, 

As o’ foot and han’ ! 

Lang be yours sic answer 
To ony spierin’ man.” 


RANALD BANNERMAN^S BOYHOOD. 


291 


“ I ken what ye wad hae, sir. 

Though yer words are few ; 

Ye wad hae me aye as careless 
Till I care for you.” 

“ Dinna mock me, Jeannie lassie, 

Wi’ yer lauchin’ ee ; 

For ye hae nae notion 
What gaes on in me.” 

** No more I hae a notion 

O’ what’s in yonder cairn ; 

I’m no sae pry in’, Johnnie, 

It’s none o’ my consairn.* 

** Weel, there’s ae thing, Jeannie, 

Ye canna help my doo — 

Ye canna help me carin’ 

Wi’ my hert for you.” 

Johnnie turned and left her, 

Listed for the war ; 

In a year cam’ limpin’ 

Hame wi’ mony a scar. 

Wha was that was sittin’ 

W an and worn wi’ care ? 

Could it be his Jeannie 
Aged and alter’d sair ? 

Her goon was black, her eelids 
Reid wi’ sorrow’s dew : 

Could she in a twalmonth 
Be wife and widow too ? 

Jeannie’s hert gaed wallop, 

Ken’t him whan he spak’ ; 

“ I thocht that ye was deid, Johnnie j 
Is’t yersel’ come back ?” 


2^2 RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD, 


•‘O Jeannie, are ye, tell me, 

Wife or widow or baith? 

To see ye lost as I am, 

I wad be verra laith.” 

“ I canna be a widow 

That wife was never nane ; 

But gin ye will hae me, 

Noo I will be ane.” 

His crutch he flang it frae him 
Forgetful o’ war’s harms ; 

But couldna stan’ without it, 

And fell in Jeannie’s arms. 

“ That’s not a bad ballad,” said James Duff'. “ Have 
you a tune it would go to, Elsie 

Elsie thought a little, and asked me to repeat the 
first verse. Thea she sung it out clear and fair to a 
tune I had never heard before. 

“ That will do splendidly, Elsie,” I said. “ I will 
write it out for you, and then you will be able to sing 
it all the next time I come.” 

She made me no answer. She and Turkey were 
looking at each other, and did not hear me. James 
Duff began to talk to me. Elsie was putting away 
the SLipper-things. In a few minutes I missed her and 
Turkey, and they were absent for some time. They 
did not return together, but first Turkey, and Elsie 
some minutes after. As the night was now getting 
quite stormy, James Duff counseled our return, and 
we obeyed. But little either Turkey or I cared for 
wind or hail. 

I saw Elsie at church most Sundays, but she was 
far too attentive and modest ever to give me even a 
look. Sometimes I had a word with her when we 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOTHOOD. 293 

came out, but my father expected us to walk home 
with him ; and I generally saw Turkey walk away 
with her. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

A BREAK IN MY STORY. 

I AM now rapidly approaching the moment at which 
I said I should bring this history to an end — the 
moment, namely, when I became aware that my boy- 
hood was behind me. 

I left home this summer for the first time, and fol- 
lowed my brother Tom to the grammar school in the 
county town, in order afterward to follow him to the 
university. There was so much of novelty and ex- 
pectation in the change that I did not feel the separa- 
tion from my father and the rest of my family much at 
first. That came afterward. For the time, the pleas- 
ure of a long ride on the top of the mail-coach, with a 
bright sun and a pleasant breeze, the various incidents 
connected with changing horses and starting afresh, and 
then the outlook for the first peep of the sea, occupied 
my attention too thoroughly. 

I do not care to dwell on my experience at the gram- 
mar school. I worked fairly, and got on, but whether 
I should gain a scholarship remained doubtful enough. 
Before the time for the examination arrived I went to 
spend a week at home. It was a great disappointment 
to me that I had to return again without seeing Elsie. 
But it could not be helped. The only Sunday I had 
there was a stormy day late in October, and Elsie had 
a bad cold, as Turkey informed me, and could not be 
26 • 


294 RANALD BANNBRMAN'S BOYHOOD. 

out ; while my father had made so many engagements 
for me that, with one thing and another, I was not able 
to go and see her. 

Turkey was now doing a man’s work on the farm, 
and stood as high as ever in the estimation of my father 
and every one who knew him. He was as great a 
favorite with Allister and Davie as with myself, and 
took very much the same place with the former as he 
had taken with me. I had lost nothing of my regard 
for him, and he talked to me with the same familiarity 
as before, urging me to diligence and thoroughness in 
my studies, pressing upon me that no one had ever 
done lasting work — “that is,” Turkey would say, 
“ work that goes to the making of the world” — without 
being in earnest as to the what and conscientious as to 
the how. 

“ I don’t want you to try to be a great man,” he said 
once. “ You might succeed, and then find out you had 
failed altogether.” 

“How could that be, Turkey.?” I objected. “A 
body can’t succeed and fail both at once.” 

“ A body might succeed,” he replied, “ in doing 
what he wanted to do, and then find out that it was 
not in the least what he had thought it.” 

“ What rule are you to follow then, Turkey ?” I 
asked. 

“Just the rule of duty,” he replied. “ What you 
ought to do, that you must do. Then when a choice 
comes, not involving duty, you know, choose what you 
like best.” 

This is the substance of what he said. If any one 
of my readers thinks it pedantic, I can only say he 
would not have thought so if he had heard it as it was 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 295 

uttered — in the homely forms and sounds of the Scot- 
tish tongue. 

“Aren’t you fit for something better than farm-work 
yourself, Turkey.?” I ventured to suggest, foolishly im- 
pelled, I suppose, to try whether I could not give 
advice too. 

“ It’s my work,” said Turkey, in a decisive tone 
which left me no room for rejoinder. 

This conversation took place in the barn, where 
Turkey happened to be threshing alone that morning. 
In turning the sheaf or in laying a fresh one there was 
always a moment’s pause in the din, and then only we 
talked, so that our conversation was a good deal 
broken. I had buried myself in the straw, as in days 
of old, to keep myself warm, and there I lay and 
looked at Turkey while he threshed, and thought with 
myself that his face had grown much more solemn 
than it used to be. But when he smiled, which was 
seldom, all the old merry sweetness dawned again. 
This was the last long talk I ever had with him. The 
next day I returned for the examination, was happy 
enough to gain a small scholarship, and entered on my 
first winter at college. 

My father wrote to me once a week or so, and occa- 
sionally I had a letter with more ink than matter in it 
from one of my younger brothers. Tom was now in 
Edinburgh, in a lawyer’s office. I had no correspond- 
ence with Turkey. Mr. Wilson wrote to me some- 
times, and along with good advice would occasionally 
send me some verses, but he told me little or nothing 
of what was going on. 


296 RANALD BANNERMAN*S BOYHOOD, 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

I LEARN THAT I AM NOT A MAN. 

I T was a Saturday morning, very early in April, 
when I climbed the mail-coach to return to my 
home for the summer, for so the university year is 
divided in Scotland. The sky was bright, with great 
fleecy clouds sailing over it, from which now and then 
fell a shower in large drops. The wind was keen, and 
I had to wrap myself well in my cloak. But my heart 
was light, and full of the pleasure of ended and success- 
ful labor, of home-going, and the signs which sun and 
sky gave that the summer was at hand. 

Five months had gone by since I last left home, and 
it had seemed such an age to Davie that he burst out 
crying when he saw me. My father received me with 
a certain still tenderness, which seemed to grow upon 
him. Kirsty followed Davie's example, and Allister, 
without saying much, haunted me like my shadow. I 
saw nothing of Turkey that evening. 

In the morning we went to church, of course, and I 
sat beside the reclining stone warrior, from whose face 
age had nearly worn the features away. I gazed at 
him all the time of the singing of the first psalm, and 
there grew upon me a strange solemnity, a sense of the 
passing away of earthly things, and a stronger convic- 
tion than I had ever had of the need of something that 
could not pass. This feeling lasted all the time of the 
service, and increased while I lingered in the church 
almost alone until my father should come out of the 
vestry. 

I stood in the passage, leaning against the tomb. A 





















RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 299 

cloud came over the sun, and the whole church grew 
dark as a December day — gloomy and cheerless. I 
heard for some time, almost without hearing them, two 
old women talking together close by me. The pulpit 
was between them and me, but when I became thor- 
oughly aware of their presence I peeped round and 
saw them. 

“And when did it happen, said you?” asked one of 
them, whose head moved with an incessant capricious 
motion from palsy. 

“ About two o’clock this morning,” answered the 
other, who leaned on a stick, almost bent double with 
rheumatism. “ I saw their next-door neighbor this 
morning, and he had seen Jamie, who goes home on a 
Saturday night, you know; but William being a 
Seceder, nobody’s been to tell the minister, and I’m 
just waiting to let him know ; for she was a great 
favorite of his, and he’s been to see her often. They’re 
much to be pitied — poor people ! Nobody thought it 
would come so sudden like. When I saw her mother 
last there was no such notion in her head.” 

Before I could ask of whom they were talking, my 
father came up the aisle from the vestry and stopped 
to speak to the old women. 

“ Elsie Duff’s gone, poor thing !” said the rheumatic 
one. ^ 

1 grew stupid. What followed I have forgotten. A 
sound was in my ears, and my body seemed to believe 
it, though my soul could not comprehend it. When I 
came to myself I was alone in the church. They had 
gone away without seeing me. I was standing beside 
the monument, leaning on the carved Crusader. The 
sun was again shining, and the old church was full of 


300 RANALD BANNERMAN’S BOYHOOD. 

iight. But the sunshine had changed to me, and I felt 
very mournful. I should see the sweet face, hear the 
lovely voice, no more in this world. I endeavored to 
realize the thought, but could not, and I left the 
church hardly conscious of anything but a dull sense 
of loss. 

I found my father very grave. He spoke tenderly 
of Elsie, but he did not know how I had loved her, 
and I could not make much response. I think, too, 
that he said less than he otherwise would, from the 
fear of calling back to my mind too vivid a memory of 
how ill I had once behaved to her. It was, indeed, my 
first thought the moment he uttered her name, but it 
soon passed, for much had come between. 

In the evening I went up to the farm to look for 
Turkey, who had not been at church morning or after- 
noon. He was the only one I could talk to about 
Elsie. I found him in one of the cow-houses bedding 
the cows. His back was toward me when I entered. 

“ Turkey,” I said. 

He looked round with a slow, mechanical motion, as 
T with a conscious effort of the will. His face was so 
white and wore such a look of loss that it almost ter- 
rified me like the presence of something awful. I 
stood speechless. He looked at me for a moment, and 
then came slowly up to me and laid his hand on my 
shoulder. 

“ Ranald,” he said, “ we were to have been married 
next year.” 

Before the grief of the man, mighty in its silence, my 
whole being was humbled. I knew my love was not 
so great as his. It grew in my eyes a pale and feeble 
thing, and I felt worthless in the presence of her dead 


RANALD BANNERMAN'S BOYHOOD. 301 

whom alive I had loved with peaceful gladness. Elsie 
belonged to Turkey, and he had lost her, and his heart 
was breaking. I threw my arms round him and wept 
for him, not for myself. It was thus I ceased to be a 
boy. 

Here, therefore, my story ends. Before I returned 
to the university Turkey had enlisted and left the 
place. 

My father’s half prophecy concerning him is now ful- 
filled. He is a general. I will not tell his name. For 
some reason or other he had taken his mother’ s, and by 
that he is well known. I have never seen him or heard 
from him since he left my father’s service, but I am 
confident that if ever we meet it will be as old and true 
friends. 

26 


THE END. 



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oughly digested and compactly ar- 
ranged as that before us.” — Boston 
Globe. 

“ Admirably adapted for a text- 
book" — Philadelphia Evening Tele- 
graph. 

“As here given, history is made en- 
tertaining and instructive to young and 
old. This record has been carefully 


translated and compiled from authentic 
sources, and compresses in one volume 
the facts which would require a search 
through many ponderous works to ob- 
tain elsewhere.” — Presbyterian Ban- 
ner 

“ In her goodly volume she has 
made a useful contribution to Euro- 
pean history. The mechanical execu- 
tion of the work is substantial and 
handsome.” — New York Indep€nd£nt 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO. 


Philosophers a 7 id Fools. A Study. By Jidia Duhr- 

ing. Crown 8vo. Extra cloth. ;^2.oo. 


“ Their author has thought much, 
•een a great deal, and read the best 
authors. She possesses a mind of in- 
trospective and analytical power, and 
the refined delicacy of her taste causes 
her to express the conclusions to which 
she has arrived in language at once at- 


tractive and forcible. We have derived 
great pleasure from her thoughtful and 
carefully studied essays. They discuss 
with fairness and ability that question 
which all persons love most to read 
about— themselves. ' '—Chicago JnU r- 
Ocean. 


Gentlefolks and Others. By fulia Diihring^ author 


of “ Philosophers and Fools. 

“ For summer reading, and especial- 
ly for reading aloud among people of 
refinement and"' culture, there are few 
more desirable books than this." — 
Philada. Evening Bulletin. 


” i2mo. Extra cloth. $2.00. 

“ The success of ‘ Philosophers and 
Fools* justified Miss Duhring in con- 
tinuing the papers that constituted 
that volume; and the thirteen essays 
in this will vindicate the praises that 
won." — Philada. North American. 


Scrambles Among the Alps in the Years 1860 - 69 . 

By Edward Whymper. Handsomely and profusely Illus- 
trated. 8vo. Extra cloth, gilt. ;^2.5o. Full gilt. ^3.00. 


" Mr. Whymper’s volume is as fasci- 
nating as it is exact. It excels any 
recent novel in ‘ interest.’ It gives us 
new information, and thrills us with 
vivid descriptions of mountain adven- 
ture. We cannot forecast the popu- 
larity of such a volume; but we are 
sure that if the great body of readers 
knew what was in it, there would be a 
scramble in the bookstores for these 
‘ Scrambles Among the Alps.’ "—Bos- 
ton Globe. 

"Alpine adventure and scenery have 
never been better portrayed." — Phila- 
delphia Age. 


"Graphically described and elegantly 
i\\ustrate<i."—Brooifyn Daily Eagle. 

“ More beautiful, and at the same 
time faithful, Alpine woodcuts have 
never yet appeared. In one word, they 
are, with scarcely one or two excep- 
tions, admirable, and will be regarded 
as triumphs of this kind of art. No 
preceding publication on thcsamesub- 
ject surpasses it in general attractive- 
ness, and we are disposed to say none 
equals it as the work of one man.’’— 
London A theneeum. 


Pen Pictures of Europe. Where and How We Went 

and What we Saw during a Seventeen Months’ Tour. By 
Elizabeth Peake. Profusely and handsomely Illustrated. 
Crown 8vo. Extra cloth. ^3.50. 


" It has often been said that the in- 
telligent European traveler who should 
make a literal transcript of his im- 
pressions from day to day, without 
any attempt at originality, and with 
no pretense of literary excellence, could 
not fail to produce a valuable and at- 
tractive work. This is very nearly 
the character of the present volume.*^ 
— NeV) York Tribune. 

" Another very readable book of 
^avel is Pen Pictures of Europe, by 
Elizabeth Peake. The author tells the 


story of her journey in a series of let- 
ters, which are bright, entertaining, 
and suggestive, the result of keen and 
close observation, and of that intui- 
tive perception of things which is a 
part of woman's Boston 

Journal. 

“ This is a superb book. The illus- 
trations are excellent in every respect, 
and the reading matter quite above 
the average of books of travel."— 
Chicago Journal. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO. 


Florida: Its Scenery y Climate y aiid History, With 


an Account of Char’eston, Savannah, Augusta, and Aiken j 
a Chapter for Consumptives; Various Papers on Fruit-Cul- 
ture; and a Complete Handbook and Guide. By Sidney 
Lanier. Profusely Illustrated. i2mo. Fine cloth. ^51.75. 


“ Written in a delightfully sketchy, 
ofF-hand style, the author is artist, 
poet, musician, scientist, all in one.” 
— New Orleans Bulletin. 

“ It is spirited in style, attractive in 
material, and is at once a history, a 
handbook, and a guide for the region 


of which it treats. A chapter for con- 
sumptives will be found full of excellent 
practical advice for those who, afflicted 
with this complaint, are in search of a 
mild and favorable climate .” — Boston 
Saturday Evening Gazette. 


The New Hyperion. From Paris to Marly by Way 


of the Rhine. By Edward Strahan. Profusely Illus- 
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Dore and others. 8vo. Extra cloth, black and gilt orna- 
mentation. $3.00. Full gilt. 1^3.50. 


" Besides the descriptions, which 
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in many respects the most amusing 
we have seen, although the ground 
gone over has been traveled before, 
and the story is committed to scenes 


connected with Mr. Longfellow’s 
celebrated romance of Hyperion; the 
writing is exceedingly piquant, and 
the general air of the book so jolly 
that we enjoy it quite as well as if it 
had not been indebted to two excellent 
models .” — Chicago Inter-Ocean. 


^Europe Viewed through American Spectacles. By 

C. C. Fulton, Editor of the Baltimore American. 8vo. 


Paper. $1.23. Fine cloth. 

“ It is very pleasant to be able con- 
scientiously to praise a book of a 
brother editor. We have read it with 


so much delight that we have little 
time to spare to elaborate its merits.” 
— Boston Globe. 


Many Lands and Many People. Being a Series of 

Sketches of Travel in all Parts of the World. With One 


Hundred and Forty-seven Illustrations. 8vo. Extra cloth, 


black and gilt ornamentation. $2.30. 


” Truly a work of universal interest, 
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wonderful world in which they live. 


but to all who delight in clever sketches 
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Lady Bell.- A Story of the Last Century, By the 

author of “ Citoyenne Jacqueline,” etc. Illustrated. i2mo. 


Extra cloth. ^i. 75 * 

‘ Citoyenne Jacqueline’ won a fair 
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public again with ‘Lady Bell,’ a de- 
cidedly attractive story of English 
life .” — New York Home loumal. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT ^ CO. 


What a Boy ! Problems Concerming Him. I. What 

shall we do with him? II. What will he do with himself? 


III. Who is to lilame for the consequences ? By Julia A 
Willis. With Frontispiece. i2mo. Une cloth. $1.50. 


** Every member of the family will 
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•olid to think about.” — AVtw FbrA; 
Christian Union. 

“ There is a vein of practical sense 


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the charming love scenes render the 
book one of absorbing interest, and 
the reader must be dull enough not to 
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— Pittsburgh Commercial. 


The Nursery Rattle. For Little Folks. By Anue L. 

Huber. With Twelve Chromo Illustrations. Small quarto. 
Extra cloth. ^1.75. t 


‘ Nursery Rattle’ is all the better 
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it has a musical ring in it.” — Phila- 
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‘‘The best collection of nursery songs 


from one pen in the language. Sim- 
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brevity of words, and fine humor and 
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nia. 


Diana Carew ; or^ For a Woman's Sake. A Novel. 

By Mrs. Forrester, author of “Dolores,” “Fair Women,” 
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" A story of great beauty and com- 1 admire a love-story of good society 
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the most pleasant novels of the year, I painting, will find in Mrs. Forrester’s 

and at no time during our perusal did latest novel a deep pleasure.” Boston 

we feel the interest flagging in the 1 Traveller. 
slightest degree. . . . Those who ' 


Pemberton; or. One Hundred Years Ago. By 
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As a historical novel this work is 
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phia Evening Bulletin. 

The style is graceful, fluent, and 
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Alide. A Romance of Goethe's Life. By Emma 

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Fine cloth. $1.21;. 

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PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT CO. 


The Voice in Speaking . By Emma Seiler ^ author of 
“ The Voice in Singing.” Translated by W. H. Furness. 
With Illustrations. i2mo. 

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Fine cloth. ;gi. 5 o. 

matic precision and force, showing a 
familiar knowledge of the two lan- 
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in the choice of words." — New York 
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The Romance of Natural History. By Philip Henry 


Gosse, F.R.S 
Edition. 


i2mo. 


With Twelve full-page Illustrations. 
Fine cloth. $1.2^. 

"In this little volume there is all 
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study for old and young, and is as in- 


Ntw 


structive as entertaining. The reader 
IS taken to every part of the globe, and 
ascriptions are given of the habits and 
haunts of all classes of animals.”— 
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America Discovered by the Welsh in riyo A.D. By 
Rev. Benjamin F. Bowen. i2mo. Extra cloth. $ 1 . 2 $. 


" The book is extremely interest- 
«ind will be especially absorbing 
to those fond of antiquarian researches. 
The last peg appears to be knocked 
from under poor Columbus as an origi- 
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lican. 


fhe author has brought together 
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matter, and makes out a strong case. 
. . . The book is well written, and 
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The Abuse of Maternity, through its Rejection, and 
through its Unwise Acceptance. By Mrs. Elizabeth E. 
Evans. i2mo. Fine cloth. ;^i.oo. 


"A well-timed and sensible book 
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perusal of the sex most seriously in- 
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“She sweeps over the whole length 


breadth of the subject as it affecu 
all known races and countries, govern- 
ments and peoples and households, 

and makes an interesting essay." 

St. Louis Republican. 


Literature of Kissing. Gleaned from Poetry, His^ 
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“ 7'his is a curious and very amusing 
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for he has made a book almost as at- 
tractive, fascinating, and exhilarating 
as his Albany youmal. 


PUBLICATIONS OF J. B. LIPPINCOTT ^ CO, 


Oft Punctuation. A Handbook of Punctuation ^ con* 

taining the more important Rules and an exposition of Princi* 
pies upon which they depend. By Prof. Joseph A. T.URNER, 


M.A. i6mo. Extra cloth. 

“ This little volume is one of the 
handiest books that ever came under 
our observation. It instructs in a clear 
manner on a most difficult subject, one 
which should engage the attention of 
every person making any pretension 
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book, but there is more solid informa- 
tion crowded between its covers than 
can be found in many a volume of 


75 cents. 

much larger pretensions.” — Washing- 
ton Chronicle. 

“ This is the most useful little manual 
of punctuation we have ever seen. . 
. . We commend this little book to 

those — and who does not ? — who find 
themselves puzzled by the necessities 
of punctuation.” — Boston Literary 
World. 


The Concordance to Shakespeare^ s Poems. An Index 

to Every Word Therein Contained. By Mrs. Horace 
Howard Furness. 8vo. With the Poems appended. Extra 


cloth. ^4.00. 

” It will be as valuable to readers of 
Shakespeare as is Mrs. Mary Cowden 
Clarke’s Concordance to the Dramas. 
At the end of the volume the entire 
poems are also printed, which will add 
greatly to the value of the work. The 
patience, care, and industry necessary 
to the preparation of such a book are 


worthy of the highest praise ; and the 
volume shows that Mrs. Furness is as 
devoted a Shakespearean as is her 
husband, whose variorum edition of 
the plays has won the admiration ot 
scholars and critics wherever the vol 
umes issued have been received.”— 
Philadelphia Evening Bulletin. 


The Ten Laws of Health ; or^ How Disease is Pro- 

duced and can be Prevented. By J. R. Black, M.D. i2mo 


Extra cloth. $i. 75 - 

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terse. The different topics are well 
handled, the injunctions in reference 
to health, in the main, consonant with 
our present views on the prevention of 
disease.” — Prof. Austin Flint, Sr., 
Bellevue Medical College, New York. 


” I have given your work on the 
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indorsement of your teachings in every 
department of your subject. The 
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judgment admirably adapted to a hygi- 
enic treatise intended for popular use.” 
— D. Francis Condie, M.D., of Phil^ 
adelphia. 


The Villages of the Bible. By Rev. E. Paxton Hood^ 

author of “ The World of Anecdote,” “ Lamps, Pitchers, 
and Trumpets,” etc. l2mo. With Illustrations. Extra cloth. 
^51.25. 

** It is an Interesting and highly in- memorable places described.’* — Balti 
Btructive volume, handsomely illustra- more Episcopal Methodist. 
ted with full-page engravings of the 


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